PUNCHINELLO 


FLORENCE  STUART 


GIFT  OF 


/' 


/ 


"PUNCHINELLO 


9> 


"PUNCHINELLO" 


BY 


FLORENCE   STUART 


BOSTON 
L.   C.   PAGE  esf   COMPANY 

MDCCCC 


Copyright^  igoo 
By  L.  C.  Page  and  Company 

(incorporathd) 
All  rights  reserved 


ffiolonfal  ^rejsa 

Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  C.  H.  Simonds  &  Oo. 

Boston,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 


To 
ISABEL 


438848 


"Die  Engel  nennen  es  Himmelsfrieden, 
Die  Teufel  nennen  es  Hollenqual, 
Die  Menschen  nennen  es  Liebe." 


INTRODUCTION 

DESPITE,  or  perhaps  by  reason  of  acci- 
dents of  stature  and  fortune,  my  luckless 
ancestor,  Anthony  Dallas,  stands  out  in  pictur- 
esque relief  among  the  stolid  figures  that  fur- 
nish our  family  annals.  When  as  a  child  I  first 
noted  the  old  oil  painting  that  represents  a  man 
with  the  figure  of  a  dwarf  and  the  head  of  a 
Titan,  I  was  drawn  to  the  face  that  stared  out 
of  the  canvas  with  tired,  miserable  eyes,  in 
which  was  written  experience  of  a  more  gener- 
ous lot  of  suffering  than  falls  to  the  majority. 
When  I  learned  that  he  had  made  a  great  name 
in  music,  and  was  also  the  hero  of  a  romance 
of  which  none  knew  the  rights,  but  which  had 
undoubtedly  more  gained  than  lost  by  an 
imaginative  transmission,  my  older  years  with- 
drew nothing  from  the  first  warm  interest  of 
my  childhood. 

For  years  my  curiosity  was  somewhat  starved, 
for   the   biography   that  circulates   with    other 


8  INTRODUCTION 

dreary  volumes  of  the  kind — the  same  bio- 
graphy to  which  Dallas  refers  with  such  bitter- 
ness— holds  nothing  but  the  record  of  a  genius 
who  marched  triumphant  to  success,  and  appar- 
ently breathed  on  inaccessible  heights  an  air 
denied  to  meaner  mortals.  "  Indififerent,"  runs 
the  quaint  old  phrase,  "  to  luxury,  women, 
and  social  life.  Master  Dallas  spent  his  long 
life  in  arduous  musical  composition,  finding 
sufficient  reward  in  the  rich  appreciation  of  the 
artistic  world."  In  the  opening  chapters  there 
is  a  hint  of  an  early  romance  that  ended  badly, 
and  for  the  time  threw  a  shadow  over  Master 
Dallas's  life ;  "  but,"  it  runs,  "  he  entirely  sur- 
mounted the  unhappy  outcome  of  this  youthful 
attachment,  and  found  ample  compensation  for 
domestic  joys  in  the  full  exercise  of  his  art." 

As  I  write  this  the  picture  is  before  me,  and 
almost  I  could  fancy  that  the  delicate  mouth 
twitches  and  the  sombre  eyes  smile.  Poor 
Anthony  !  His  face  haunts  me  with  its  piteous 
gaze  of  non-comprehension — so  does  a  child 
look  suffering  an  undeserved  punishment.  I 
would  have  sacrificed  much  leisure  and  patience 
to  have  unravelled  the  truth  of  the  romance, 
which  his  own  chronicler  dismissed  so  curtly, 
and   that  has   gradually  drifted  and  dwindled 


INTRODUCTION  ^ 

in  careless  mouths,  till  it  has  lost  all  claim  to 
veracity,  and  is  surmised  by  some  to  have  been 
a  low  intrigue,  by  others  a  hopeless  attachment 
to  a  lady  of  high  degree  ;  it  has  been  bestial,  it 
has  been  platonic,  that  romance,  but  always  en- 
tirely subjective  and  dependent  on  the  tempera- 
ment of  the  raconteur  for  the  form  it  took. 
Poor  Anthony  ;  he  would  have  mocked  with 
the  best. 

I  discovered  the  truth  by  a  most  trivial  acci- 
dent. In  one  of  the  morning-rooms  at  Dane's 
End,  where  Dallas  was  born  and  lived  the  first 
part  of  his  life,  and  where  I  have  so  far  followed 
his  lines,  there  is  an  old  square  table,  riddled, 
I  may  say,  with  drawers,  pigeon-holes,  and 
manifold  receptacles  for  papers.  Here,  goes 
the  legend,  Anthony  was  found  dead  with  his 
head  lying  on  his  arms,  and  a  manuscript 
scarcely  dried  before  him.  For  the  truth  of 
this  I  cannot  vouch — the  statement  has  a  pic- 
turesque completeness  that  wakes  unkind  criti- 
cism, but  here  in  this  table,  hunting  for  a  letter 
of  my  own,  I  pulled  out  a  drawer  and  dis- 
covered that  behind  it  was  a  false  back,  seem- 
ingly the  end,  in  reality  the  beginning  of  an- 
other receptacle,  and  here,  pushed  far  back, 
thick    with    dust    and    cobwebs,   the    yellowed 


to  INTRODUCTION 

pages  almost  falling  apart  from  stress  of  years, 
I  found  the  truth  of  that  romance. 

"  Punchinello  "  was  scrawled  across  it  in  large 
defiant  letters,  but  there  were  marks  on  it 
from  the  making  of  which  both  spiders  and 
years  could  claim  exemption.  The  pages  were 
blistered  with  old  scars  of  bitter  tears.  Poor 
Anthony — they  made  a  quaint  framing  to  the 
defiant  "  Punchinello  "  that  filled  the  middle  of 
the  sheet.  I  opened  the  manuscript,  and  once 
under  its  influence,  read  and  read,  gathering 
every  moment  clues  to  the  complex  face  on  the 
canvas.  It  was  not  altogether  a  pleasant  peru- 
sal, not  touching  by  many  lengths  the  exqui- 
site tales  furnished  by  the  fervid  imaginations 
of  those  who,  strong  in  the  knowledge  of  an- 
cient lore,  and  pitying  my  curiosity,  made  me 
free  of  their  most  finished  solutions  of  my 
difficulty.  "  A  romance,  of  course  !  Anthony 
Dallas,  your  ancestor — somebody  wrote  his  life — 

somebody  said "  And  then  would  flow  forth, 

in  irresponsible  gay  tones,  travestied  gorgeous 
readings  of  what  by  light  of  surer  knowledge 
I  can  but  term  a  pitiful  tale.  Unfinished,  care- 
lessly written,  "  eternally  vapouring,"  as  the 
author  has  it,  the  old  MS.  possesses  for  me  an 
indefinable  charm,  with  its  sad  telling  of  a  life 


INTRODUCTION  11 

that,  apparently  cursed  by  Fate,  yet  met  ship- 
wreck by  the  means  that  should  have  proved 
its  salvation.  Perhaps  he  frightened  her  over- 
much for  all  his  love.  Poor  little  Nan  I  « If 
Anthony  come  to  know."  The  pity  of  it  that 
he  did  not.  I  should  have  preferred  a  more 
comfortable  ending  to  this  most  unfortunate 
tale  ;  but  as  poor  Anthony  himself  would  scoff, 
— the  painted  lips  almost  quiver  with  life  and 
speech  as  I  stare  at  him — There  is  always  the 
biographer. 

DOROTHY  DALLAS. 
Dane's  End, 
Chilwaithe. 


I 


LOOKING  back  to  the  early  years  of  my 
life,  it  seems  to  me  that  my  first  con- 
sciousness was  touched  with  the  two  great 
emotions — if  I  may  so  call  them — which  have 
so  swayed  my  destiny.  I  cannot  remember  a 
time  in  which  I  was  ignorant  that  a  malign 
fate  had  laid  evil  fingers  on  me,  and  that  I 
stood  ostracized  among  happier  children,  or  a 
time  in  which  I  was  not  determined  to  some- 
how cheat  my  ill  fortune.  This  knowledge  of 
something  foreign  in  me  made  me  vaguely 
unhappy  in  the  period  of  white  frocks  and 
coloured  ribbons  long  before  definite  words 
had  given  it  expression  :  a  smothered  sigh,  a 
stranger's  stare,  an  expression  of  sympathy, 
which,  child  as  I  was,  I  noticed  fell  ever  to 
my  lot,  and  never  to  those  children  with  whom 
I  played — little  trifles  for  which  I  ever  endea- 
voured to  account,  though  the  reason  of  which 
I    never,   curiously    enough,    inquired.      Along 

13 


14  "PUNCHINELLO'* 

with  this  nebulous  sense  of  something  wrong, 
there  raged  within  me  a  ridiculous  ambition. 
Even  now,  though  I  have  lost  the  trick  of 
laughter,  I  smile  at  the  vastness  of  the  castles 
that  I  built  in  those  brave  days — there  was 
never  pinnacle  too  vast  for  me  to  raise — and 
when  I  stood  triumphant,  having  conquered 
worlds,  I  generously  forgave  those  who  had 
cast  slights  on  me  by  their  patronizing  pity. 

I  must  have  been  a  singularly  unobservant 
child,  or  possibly  mirrors  were  purposely  with- 
held from  me,  but  I  was  seven  years  old 
before  I  knew  the  why  and  wherefore  of  this 
eternal  compassion  which  I  so  resented. 

It  happened  that  one  of  our  neighbours  gave 
a  children's  masque.  To  add  a  fresh  zest  it 
had  been  decided  that  the  tiny  guests  should 
each  go  in  a  fancy  dress,  illustrating  as  they 
would  any  period  or  character.  Now  this 
fancy,  though  I  believe  common  enough  in 
Town,  had  not  penetrated  to  the  country,  and 
its  freshness  threw  the  neighbouring  mothers 
into  almost  as  hot  a  fever  of  anticipation  as  the 
children.  The  emulation  was  intense  as  to  who 
should  show  the  greatest  originality  in  costume. 
I  remember  how  we  children  spent  long  hours 
in  puzzled  endeavour  at  choice.     Cecily  had  it 


"PUNCHINELLO"  15 

in  her  mind  to  go  as  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots. 
She  was  ten  years  of  age,  and  had  the  sweet- 
ness and  roundness  of  a  rosy  apple.  "  I  will 
go  as  Mary,"  I  hear  her  now  beseeching  my 
mother,  "  and  Reuben  " — a  little  lad  with  whom 
we  often  played — "  shall  be  my  executioner, 
and  carry  my  block  behind  me  draped  in 
black,"  she  added  enthusiastically ;  "  it  will  be 
perfect."  She  went,  I  remember,  as  Phyllis, 
and  Reuben  as  Corydon.  They  were  the 
prettiest  pair  imaginable.  But  I  digress  over- 
much. I  weary  telling  my  tale,  as  I  foresaw, 
with  manifold  twistings  and  turnings.  Now  as 
the  days  passed  I  pestered  my  mother  with 
eternal  questions  as  to  what  character  I  should 
best  present,  but  she  ever  avoided  my  question, 
looking  at  me  with  eyes  full  of  fret. 

"  Art  so  anxious  to  go,  my  heart  ? "  she 
asked  me  once.  "  Think  of  your  mother  lonely 
at  home ;  will  you  not  stay  with  her,  my 
Tony?" 

Now,  although  my  intelligence  lagged  so  in 
understanding  my  infirmity,  I  was  a  shrewd  lad 
enough  in  other  ways  ;  and  when  my  mother, 
who  was  ever  keen  to  throw  pleasures  in  my 
road,  now  suddenly  put  herself  first,  and  begged 
me  to  refrain  from  a  delight,  the  like  of  which 


i6  "PUNCHINELLO" 

had  never  been  known  in  Chilwaithe,  to 
pleasure  her  fancy,  I  felt,  child  as  I  was,  some- 
thing of  doubt. 

"Not  go?"  I  halted. 

"  But  once,"  she  pleaded  ;  "  and  we  will  sit 
together,  you  and  I — and  I  will  read  you  tales 
of  King  Arthur." 

She  looked  at  me  with  her  dear  blue  eyes 
again,  and  then  she  stooped  and  put  her  arms 
around  me. 

"  My  little  lad,"  she  said  softly,  and  when  she 
lifted  her  head  I  could  see  the  sparkle  of  tears 
on  the  smooth  velvet  of  my  shoulder,  and  I 
wondered  more  than  ever. 

"  Wouldst  like  to  hear  of  Sir  Galahad  ?  "  she 
coaxed  cunningly, — for  Sir  Galahad  was  my 
favourite  knight  in  all  that  gallant  band, — "  and 
Sir  Lancelot  ?  You  shall  sit  up  as  late  as  the 
others,  my  Tony,  and  we  will  read  together, 
and  have  a  pleasant  evening  ;  is  it  not  so  ?  " 

"  No,  no  ! "  I  broke  short  her  words,  half 
angry,  half  puzzled  at  this  intent  to  defraud  me 
of  my  pleasure,  suspicious,  child  as  I  was,  of 
some  hidden  reason  for  this  unwillingness.  "  I 
would  love  to  go  as  a  soldier,"  I  coaxed,  pulling 
at  her  gown,  "  with  a  sword  and  a  cocked  hat  of 
many  feathers  "  ;  and  when  she  made  no  reply, 


"PUNCHINELLO"  17 

I  burst  into  tears,  stung  by  the  injustice  that 
would  cut  me  out  of  the  coming  delights  which 
were  making  the  days  of  the  others  bright  with 
anticipation.  It  was  just  as  I  clung  to  her,  and 
she  turned  away  with  her  face  working,  that 
the  door  was  flung  open,  and  Joseph  announced 
a  Mistress  Granby  and  her  son. 

Mistress  Granby  entered  with  an  angry  rustle 
of  silk,  her  skirts  standing  stiffly  round  her  and 
almost  obscuring  from  view  the  lad  who  fol- 
lowed on  her  heels.  She  was  a  lady  of  gener- 
ous proportions  and  good  height,  the  latter 
augmented  by  the  waving  feathers  in  her  bon- 
net, and  she  took  full  advantskge  of  the  facilities 
her  amplitude  afforded  for  purposes  of  bedizen- 
ment.  Her  fleshly  body,  I  mind,  burgeoned 
above  a  stiff  stomacher  glinting  with  glittering 
beads  twisted  in  strange  device.  This  feature 
of  her  attire  is  impressed  on  my  memory  ;  for 
having  paid  obeisance  to  my  mother,  she  turned 
mumbling  something  of  condolence  regarding 
my  pale  looks,  and  enveloped  me,  regardless  of 
my  shrinking  distaste,  in  a  voluminous  embrace, 
from  which  I  emerged  panting  and  smarting 
from  an  affectionate  but  ill-advised  pressure. 

I  loved  her  not,  and  included  her  son  in  my 
distaste.     It  was  almost  as  if — baby  though  I 

B 


i8  "PUNCHINELLO" 

was — some  prescience  that  my  calamity  would 
come  to  me  through  these  folk  advised  me  to 
avoid  their  vicinity. 

I  shook  myself  free  of  her  with  scantest 
courtesy,  and  backed  precipitately  towards  my 
mother,  who  frowned  heavily,  and  yet  sought 
my  eyes  with  a  glance  pregnant  of  sympathy. 
She — I  discovered  as  the  years  passed — shared 
my  detestation  of  these  grand  neighbours,  al- 
though it  never  reached  the  full  vigour  of  my 
hatred.  Having  mannerlessly  freed  myself,  I 
glowered  at  Mistress  Granby,  who  regarded  me 
with  a  somewhat  obtuse  benevolence. 

Tardily  just,  I  must  acknowledge  the  excel- 
lence of  her  intention,  and  recognising  the  fact 
as  clearly  as  I  now  do,  I  cannot  understand 
why  my  memories  of  this  lady  should  fill  my 
mind  with  such  harsh  jarring.  Some  have  it 
that  kindly  time,  dulling  a  too  critical  remem- 
brance, oft  transforms  quondam  enmity  to 
friendship  or  at  least  tolerance.  It  is  an  amiable 
fancy,  but  I  cannot — speaking  for  myself  and  of 
such  as  have  made  me  intimate  of  their  private 
loves  and  hates — believe  it  true.  There  is  no 
truer  instinct  than  a  child's  ;  mine  indeed  never 
played  me  false.  Where  I  loved,  my  heart  still 
lies ;  where  I  hated,  the  sum  has  grown  with  the 


"PUNCHINELLO"  19 

accruing  years.  If  there  be  aught  of  verity  in 
words  of  holy  men,  you  and  I,  Master  Cosmo, 
will  sometime  settle  a  long  account.  But  I 
diverge. 

Indubitably  on  this  occasion  I  treated  Mis- 
tress Granby  right  scurvily,  being  a  child  spoiled 
and  indulged  beyond  all  reason.  I  was  ever  the 
first  considered,  and  was  allowed  many  little 
indulgences  denied  to  Cecily.  I  played  little 
A^ith  other  children,  and  they — I  know  now — 
carefully  warned  beforehand,  treated  me  as  if 
I  were  of  a  finer  clay  than  they  boasted.  I 
now  understand  that  my  mother — I  had  no 
father — had  instituted  a  curious  law  of  atone- 
ment, and  was  perpetually  striving  to  com- 
pensate me  by  a  flawless  childhood  for  the 
griefs  that  life  must  inevitably  hold  in  the 
future. 

"Poor  child,"  sighed  Mistress  Granby.  She 
looked  at  me  with  the  fishy  eyes  I  abhorred,  and 
swayed  her  head  from  side  to  side,  till  all  the 
funereal  plumes  waved  in  desolate  sympathy. 
"You  bear  these  hot  days  well,  Anthony." 

"  He  is  well  enough,"  interposed  my  mother 
with  a  touch  of  acidity,  as  I  instinctively  turned 
towards  the  door.  Dear  heart !  Now  I  know 
how  truly  my  every  hurt  was  hers.      "  Go  into 


20  "  PUNCHINELLO^' 

the  gardens,  Tony,  and  take  Cosmo  with  you.  Go 
and  see  the  foal,"  she  added,  arresting  my  flight 

I  saw  no  other  way  of  escaping  from  the 
drawing-room,  and  catching  from  my  mother's 
voice  a  hint  of  her  desire  to  be  rid  of  me,  I 
somewhat  ungraciously  stepped  out  of  the  long 
windows  on  to  the  lawn,  followed  by  my  guest. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  irritating  consciousness  of 
his  superior  strength  and  his  fine  limbs  —  I 
being  but  of  a  poor  build,  tiny  for  my  years, 
and  of  an  exceeding  slow  growth,  which  I 
steadily  strove  to  accelerate  by  stolen  watches 
in  rain  showers — or  it  may  be  Cosmo's  slow, 
heavy  complacency  with  himself  and  indifference 
to  my  claims  when  we  met,  which  was  but 
rarely.  I  incline  to  the  latter  theory,  for  he 
treated  me  with  a  scantily  veiled  contempt. 
Indeed,  I  know  not  truly  the  why  and  the  where- 
fore, but  this  boy  I  could  not  endure. 

Still,  at  first,  on  that  eventful  afternoon,  we 
walked  with  apparent  amicability  through  the 
gardens  on  our  way  to  visit  the  new  foal.  For 
the  moment  I  had  forgotten  the  masque  till  he 
minded  me  of  it  with  a  boastful  tale  of  his 
adornments.  "I  go  as  a  courtier,"  quoth  he, 
"of  Louis  XII.'s  time — velvet  knee-breeches, 
long  coat,  and  silk  stockings.     Do   not  tell  it 


*'  PUNCHINELLO  "  21 

abroad,"  he  simpered  ;  "  my  mother  thinks  the 
effect  will  be  the  greater  if  none  know  before- 
hand. Very  full  the  knee-breeches,"  he  maun- 
dered, "  lace  ruffles  over  the  hands,"  I  confess 
I  felt  a  little  sick.  We  are  told  that  vanity  is  a 
vice  of  the  weaker  sex  ;  but,  methinks,  the  wise 
king,  when  he  confined  a  solemn  warning  to 
women  against  the  wearing  of  vain  apparel  and 
the  love  of  adornment,  showed  undue  and  un- 
just favouritism  to  man.  I  have  seen  old  bucks 
of  seventy,  corseted,  rouged  and  curled  with  an 
infinity  of  art  that  topped  their  years  of  two- 
score  in  daylight,  and  I  have  seen  these  same 
prepared  for  rest.  It  was  ungallantly  done  of 
Solomon. 

Now  when  he  told  me  of  these  things  my  day 
clouded  again,  and  I  felt  somewhat  bitterly  to- 
wards my  mother  because  I  had  no  tale  with 
which  to  match  his  vaunt.  I  was  sore  put  to  it, 
for  I  could  not  bear  that  he  should  guess  the 
truth,  when  an  impish  thought  struck  me  and  I 
smiled  wisely. 

"  I  keep  my  secret  till  the  night,"  said  I  ;  and, 
not  content  with  that,  went  on  to  tease  him. 
"  I  have  a  careless  tongue,"  I  said  regretfully. 
"  I  would  you  had  not  told  me,  Cosmo — not  but 
what  I  will  strive  to  keep  silence." 


22  "PUNCHINELLO" 

Now  Cosmo,  for  all  his  grace  of  limb  and  pink 
healthy  face,  was  as  stupid  as  a  carp,  and  he  fell 
headlong  into  my  trap. 

"  Anthony,  you  would  not !  "  he  prayed  ;  "  gen- 
tlemen (oh,  the  air  of  him !)  do  not  do  these 
things." 

"  Slips  of  the  tongue  happen,"  I  said  senten- 
tiously.  "  Think  not  I  would  do  it  for  malice," 
and  I  regarded  him  from  the  corner  of  my  eye, 
wondering  how  far  I  might  trade  on  that  carp- 
like density. 

It  seemed  I  had  somewhat  miscalculated  his 
thickheadedness,  for  he  turned  on  me  in  sudden 
fury.     "  Malice — why,  you  are  made  of  it !    'Tis 

a  common  trait  of "      And  then  he  halted, 

while  the  angry  blood  flooded  his  face. 

Even  now,  had  I  forborne,  I  might  have  kept 
my  happy  ignorance  a  little  longer,  but  I  rushed 
to  my  doom.  "  A  common  trait — big  words  !  " 
mocked  L  "  Art  fallen  short  before  the  close  of 
the  phrase  ?  " 

He  looked  at  me  wickedly  and  smiled. 

"  I  can  make  a  fair  guess  at  your  dress,"  he 
grinned  ;  "  'twill  suit  you  to  the  life — an  ex- 
cellent Punchinello  ! " 

"  Punchinello  !  "  I  said  in  honest  amazement ; 
"  why  Punchinello  ?  " 


"  PUNCHINELLO  "  23 

"  Come,"  he  said,  still  with  that  curious  smile, 
and  he  cut  across  the  grass  in  the  direction  of 
the  pond  that  glistened  like  a  huge  glass  set  in 
the  earth.  Against  the  long  crowded  years, 
with  all  their  tumult  and  striving,  that  sleepy, 
summer  noon  stands  out  in  curious  relief.  I 
turn  my  eyes  inward  and  a  mental  picture  is 
before  me.  The  long  lush  grasses  through 
which  we  stumbled,  mercilessly  crushing  fragile 
bells  o'  Bethlehem,  and  startling  grasshoppers 
into  flight  and  whirr.  The  foal  we  had  come  to 
see,  I  mind,  was  shaking  long,  ridiculous  legs 
in  the  next  field.  On  our  way  we  passed  an 
apple-tree  from  which  the  rosy  foam  had  not 
entirely  drifted.  From  where  we  stood  we 
could  see  the  house  veiled  with  ivy,  and  a  turn 
of  the  gravelled  drive  sentinelled  by  flaunting 
tulips,  that  from  the  distance  made  the 
effect  of  a  strip  of  gay  ribbon  winding  to  the 
door.  The  air  was  sweet  with  the  scent  of 
cabbage  roses  and  mignonette,  floating  from  the 
flower-beds  we  had  left  behind  us.  We  hurried 
through  the  grass,  I  too  breathless,  in  my  en- 
deavour to  keep  pace  with  him,  to  question  till 
we  came  to  the  edge  of  the  pond.  It  lay  still 
and  clear,  throwing  back  faithful  reflections  of 
a  willow  that  hung  over  it :  I  remember  there 


24  "  PUNCHINELLO  " 

was  a  gigantic  water-lily  floating  on  it,  resting 
placidly  on  its  green  leaves,  with  a  gold  heart 
bared  to  the  blaze  of  sunshine,  and  hints  of  tur- 
quoise fringed  it  where  the  forget-me-nots  lifted 
blue  eyes.  The  whistle  of  a  mavis  in  the  dis- 
tance made  gay  music.     I  remember  it  keenly. 

Now  when  we  had  come  to  the  edge,  Cosmo 
beckoned  to  me  to  lean  over.  "  Look  at  your- 
self," he  said  gleefully,  "  and  understand  why 
you  shall  be  Punchinello." 

I  hesitated,  thinking  that  in  his  malice  he 
meditated  precipitating  me  into  the  water. 
"  Have  no  fear,"  he  said  again.  "  Stand  thus  !  " 
He  moved  a  few  paces  away  from  me  and  looked 
sideways  into  the  water. 

I  followed  his  example,  and  the  tranquil  pond 
flashed  back  our  images. 

"  Understand  ?  "  said  he. 

"  No,"  said  I,  and  pulled  uneasily  at  the  vel- 
vet blouse  I  wore,  striving  to  straighten  its 
clumsy  folds.  Despite  my  aversion  to  them, 
I  always  wore  in  those  days  full  blouses  and 
large  lace  collars  instead  of  the  trim  coats  I 
coveted. 

"  Pull  harder,"  said  he. 

And  I,  poor  baby,  pulled  harder  with  no 
result.     "  Now  do  you  understand  ?  "  he  asked 


**  PUNCHINELLO  '*  25 

again.  He  came  quickly  to  my  side  and  drew 
my  velvet  blouse  tightly  over  my  back.  "  Pun- 
chinello," he  said  sweetly  ;  "  indeed,  an  excellent 
Punchinello  ! " 

I  cast  a  sharp  glance  over  my  shoulder, 
fearing  I  knew  not  what,  and  saw  my  shape 
outlined  in  pitiless  distinctness.  It  was  surely 
some  passing  ripple  that  lent  that  distorted  out- 
line to  my  back.  My  head  too,  sunk  between 
my  shoulders,  loomed  enormous  in  contrast  to 
my  meagre  body  ;  but  it  was  on  the  outline 
of  my  back  that  my  eyes  fastened — it  was,  if  not 
a  hump,  the  very  surest  indication.  I  put  my 
hand  behind  me  and  strove  to  feel  it  through 
the  folds  and  frills  of  my  blouse. 

"  It  is  my  blouse,"  I  faltered.  My  pride  was 
gone,  and  to  my  shamed  ears  my  voice  sounded 
full  of  tears.  "  These  clumsy  folds  !  "  I  plucked 
at  them  feverishly — I  can  feel  the  surface  of 
that  velvet  now.     "  The  blouse,"  I  said  again. 

Cosmo  laughed  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"  As  you  will,"  said  he.  I  looked  at  him  help- 
lessly, fighting  with  the  flood  that  was  smarting 
in  my  eyes.  "  I  have  a  weak  back,"  I  babbled 
again ;  "  I  shall  be  stronger  when  I'm  grown 
up." 

"Grown  up  ! "  he  scoffed  ;  "  such  as  you  do  not 


26  "PUNCHINELLO" 

grow.  I  " — he  smiled  complacently  at  his  own 
image,  bending  over  it  enamoured,  like  a  young 
Narcissus — "  promise  six  feet,  so  they  tell  me." 

A  great  knot  rose  in  my  throat  and  choked 
me  :  all  the  gracious  world,  that  had  been  so 
fair  a  few  moments  before,  swam  blurred  before 
my  eyes.  My  voice  sounded  strangely  when  I 
strove  to  speak.  "  I  will  keep  your  secret,"  I 
gasped  ;  "  Cosmo,  say  it  is  not  true  ! — Cosmo." 

But  his  eyes  were  rivetted  on  the  foal  that  he 
had  just  spied,  and  he  was  wearying  of  the  sub- 
ject. "  What  do  words  avail  ?  "  he  yawned  ;  "it 
is  common  talk,  but  I  will  lie  an  it  please  you, 
Punchinello  !  "  And  he  ran  towards  the  stile  of 
the  meadow,  and  left  me  gazing  at  the  figure 
mirrored  in  the  pond.  Now,  curious  as  it  may 
seem,  I  had  had  no  idea  of  my  deformity.  I  knew 
indeed  that  I  was  not  over-strong.  I  was  for 
ever  coddled  and  petted  and  made  to  rest 
unduly,  and  resented,  as  I  said  before,  a  clumsy 
compassion  ;  but,  having  mixed  little  with  other 
children,  and  those  carefully  chosen,  I  was  in 
perfect  ignorance  of  my  shape.  A  mirror 
might  have  disillusioned  me,  but  I  had  little 
vanity,  and  indeed  I  might  have  gazed  by  the 
hour  at  my  own  image  and  have  detected  no- 
thing— it  was  only  in  profile  that  my  cruel  shape 


''  PUNCHINELLO  "  27 

showed.  Even  as  I  gazed  into  the  water,  with 
my  blouse  held  firmly  down  with  both  hands, 
that  my  outline  should  be  presented  in  all  its 
hideous  nakedness,  I  saw  no  hump,  only  a  sug- 
gestion. I  wondered,  as  I  gazed,  how  much  it 
would  grow.  To  my  excited  eyes  my  deformity 
increased  with  the  speeding  moments.  Punchi- 
nello !  God  could  not  be  so  cruel,  I  knew.  I 
strove  to  comfort  myself  with  sobbed  assevera- 
tions of  the  Divine  inability  to  promulgate  so 
great  a  wrong ;  I  looked  up  into  the  blazing  blue 
overhead,  half  expecting  the  skies  to  open  and  a 
comforting  negative  to  issue  therefrom.  I  knew 
He  would  not — could  not ;  but  for  all  my 
certainty  I  sickened  to  have  my  convictions 
echoed  by  another. 

My  thoughts  flew  to  that  sweet  presence — my 
mother.  She  would  set  all  things  right,  and 
comfort  me.  We  would  laugh  together  at  this 
brutal  jest ; — and  for  the  future  I  would  wear, 
I  resolved,  close-fitting  coats,  like  other  lads, 
instead  of  these  slovenly  blouses  that  cheated 
even  ponds  to  such  cruel  semblance  of  de- 
formity. 

I  forgot  Mistress   Granby  in  my  distress,  or 
more  truly,  remembered  and  did  not  care, 
could   hear   Cosmo's   laughter  as   he    frolicked 


28  '*  PUNCHINELLO  " 

with  the  foal.  I  heard  him  shout  "  Tony,"  but  I 
did  not  wait,  so  anxious  was  I  to  hear  from  her 
dear  lips  the  sweet,  saving  truth  that  I  was  as 
others.  She  would  laugh  at  me,  soothing  my 
terrors  with  that  tender  ridicule  with  which  she 
coaxed  me  out  of  my  frequent  fits  of  passion. 
I  sped  towards  the  house,  fast  as  my  legs  could 
carry  me,  and  struggled  panting  through  the 
long  window.  Mistress  Granby's  voice  was 
rasping  the  air  as  I  entered. 

"  Mother,"  I  said,  heedless  of  her  interrupted 
words  ;  "  mother."  I  clung  to  her  gown  with 
one  hand,  while  with  the  other  I  sought  my 
back.  "  Tell  me — it  is  not  true,"  I  gasped, 
breathless  with  my  running.  "  I  am  not 
Punchinello ;  it  is  not  true.  Cosmo  says, 
mother " 

She  spoke  no  words  of  denial,  but  drew  me 
on  to  her  knees. 

"  Take  thy  time,  Tony,"  she  said  quietly. 
"What  is  it  now?" 

And  so,  with  more  or  less  lucidity,  I  stumbled 
through  my  tale,  and  still  she  kept  silence, 
while  now  and  again  she  pressed  me  closer 
to  her. 

Only  Mistress  Granby  kept  up  a  running 
accompaniment,  "  H'm,  ha  !  "  of  surprise  and  re- 


"  PUNCHINELLO  "  29 

gret,  as  women  will  ;  but  my  mother  signalled 
her  to  silence,  and  I  told  my  story,  which  was 
indeed  but  short  and  took  few  moments  in  the 
telling,  in  peace.  "Why  did  he  say  it?"  I 
finished,  and  again  her  arms  wound  closer 
round  me.  "  My  little  lad  !  "  she  whispered, 
and  something  wet  and  hot  splashed  on  my 
hand. 

At  this  moment  Cosmo  burst  into  the  room. 

"  Why  did  you  not  come  to  me  ? "  he  said 
reproachfully.     "  I  waited  for " 

Methinks  later  he  regretted  that  he  had  not 
waited  longer,  for  at  this  moment  an  amazing 
departure  occurred.  My  mother  slipped  me 
from  her  knee,  and  made  two  steps  to  where 
Cosmo  stood.  She  seized  him  by  the  collar 
with  one  hand,  the  other  glittered,  be-ringed,  for 
a  moment  in  mid-air,  and  then  descended,  with 
a  decision  that  rang  through  the  room,  on  Mas- 
ter Cosmo's  ears.  I  stared  at  her,  fascinated. 
Another  violent  box.  Had  the  last  trump 
sounded,  I  should  not  have  averted  my  eyes. 
Never  before  had  I  seen  my  mother  angry. 
She  was  transformed  in  one  moment  from  a 
Madonna  to  an  avenging  fury.  Two  splashes 
of  pink  burned  on  her  white  cheeks ;  her  mild 
blue  eyes  shamed  the  diamonds  on  that  punitory 


30  "  PUNCHINELLO '* 

hand.  Another  blow,  and  Mistress  Granby, 
who,  like  myself,  had  sat  open-mouthed  and 
paralysed  with  amazement,  interfered. 

"  He  meant  no  harm  ;  he  is  but  a  child,"  I 
heard  her  say ;  and  she  forced  Cosmo  from  my 
mother's  grasp.  She  let  him  go  with  a  final 
shake. 

"You  coward\"  she  panted  with  heaving 
breast.     "  You  reptile  !  " 

My  mother,  my  saintly  mother,  whom  I  had 
ever  likened,  in  her  pure  stillness  and  whiteness, 
to  the  tall  lilies  of  the  Annunciation  !  My 
mother,  on  whose  lips  I  had  never  heard  a 
harsh  word  !  My  mother,  who  ever,  by  a  tender 
twist  of  speech  and  voice,  turned  a  reproof  to 
kindest  phrase ! 

"Go,"  she  said,  and  turned  her  back  on 
mother  and  son. 

As  the  Granbys  passed  down  the  drive  in 
mute  acceptance  of  summary  dismissal,  I  saw 
the  Mistress  cuff  Cosmo  again  with  a  vigour 
that  matched  my  mother's  ardour,  and  some- 
thing of  the  sweetness  of  satisfied  animosity 
stole  into  my  heart.  But  I  was  still  unhappy, 
and  my  uneasiness  was  in  no  way  allayed,  for, 
after  all,  my  mother  had  said  no  word.  I  looked 
at  her  in  mute   appeal,  but  her   shoulder  was 


"  PUNCHINELLO  "  31 

turned  on  me,  and  I  knew  nothing  of  what  was 
written  in  her  face. 

"  Mother,"  I  said  at  last,  "  why  did  he  taunt 
me  thus  ?     It  is  not  true." 

Then  my  mother  turned  and  faced  me  with 
the  old  love-light  in  the  eyes  that  had  lately 
glittered  so  angrily. 

"  Come  to  my  room,  Tony,"  she  said,  taking 
me  by  the  hand,  "and  we  will  have  a  little 
talk." 

Now,  above  all  things,  I  loved  to  sit  alone 
with  my  mother  in  her  own  private  chamber. 
At.  these  times  I  was  wont  to  make  hideous 
havoc  in  her  jewel-cases  and  wardrobes,  thumb 
her  books,  all  unreproved  ;  and  when  tired  of 
this,  listen  while  she  read  aloud  tales  of  the 
knights  of  old  in  which  I  so  delighted.  I 
would  bring  my  violin,  certain  of  a  loving 
audience,  and  scrape  my  beloved  airs,  sure  of 
applause,  and  she  would  smile,  well  pleased, 
and  ask  me  if  I  would  not  love  to  be  a  musician, 
and  write  music  that  should  move  others  as 
these  writings  of  past  giants  moved  me.  And 
I  would  answer  in  the  affirmative,  truly  enough 
being  hungry  for  fame  in  any  shape,  but  adding 
frequently  as  a  rider  that  my  first  desire  was  to 
be  a  soldier  in  a  scarlet  coat  and  gold  lace,  and 


32  "  PUNCHINELLO  " 

win  great  battles.  Here  she  would  often  sigh 
and  kiss  me  suddenly,  to  my  bewilderment,  and 
fall  back  to  talk  of  music.  But  this  day,  instead 
of  leaving  me  free  to  choose  my  fancy  to  pass 
the  hours,  she  made  me  sit  on  a  chair  close  to 
her,  and  tucking  her  fingers  under  my  chin  to 
raise  my  face,  she  looked  me  squarely  in  the 
eyes. 

"What  is  most  needed  in  a  man  to  make 
him  a  great  soldier,  my  Tony  ?  "  she  asked  me. 

"Bravery,"  I  answered  quickly,  wondering 
somewhat  at  this  beginning,  for  my  mother  till 
now  had  ever  hated  talk  of  soldiers,  sports,  and 
all  such  things,  ever  striving  to  turn  my  fancy 
towards  the  arts,  and  music,  and  more  peaceful 
pursuits. 

"You  would  love  to  be  a  brave  man,  really 
brave,  of  a  courage  that  passed  the  common  ?  " 
she  said,  with  a  catch  in  her  breath. 

I  was  getting  desperately  impatient ;  my 
tongue  was  trembling  with  unspoken  questions 
as  to  the  why  and  wherefore  of  Cosmo's  cruel 
taunt  and  her  sudden  flare  of  anger.  But  there 
was  that  about  her  that  day  that  filled  me  with 
something  of  awe,  and  I  answered  her  mechani- 
cally, striving  to  understand  wherein  the  differ- 
ence lay. 


''PUNCHINELLO"  33 

"  Indeed,  yes  !  I  will  be  of  a  great  courage 
when  I  am  a  man,  fight  great  battles,  and 
wear " 

Then  suddenly  I  remembered  the  children's 
masque. 

"  Mother,"  I  began.  But  she  che.cked  me 
with  soft  fingers  on  my  mouth,  and  spoke  again 
with  a  tremor  in  her  voice. 

"  Listen,  Tony,"  she  said,  "  and  I  will  tell  you 
a  tale.  Once  upon  a  time  a  little  child  was 
born,  ordained  by  God  to  bear  something  more 
of  pain  and  sorrow  than  other  children.  At 
first  he  did  not  know,  but  one  day  a  great 
coward" — she  hesitated,  and  her  pretty  white 
hands  fidgetted  restlessly,  and  I  thought  of 
Cosmo,  for  all  my  trouble — "  told  him  he  was 
not  as  others.  This  child  had  always  enter- 
tained, from  his  first  understanding  of  life,  great 
dreams  of  glory  and  valour.  He  would  be  a 
soldier,  and  fight  his  way  to  honour,  and  he 
loved  to  talk  of  trumpets  and  chargers,  the 
brass  of  conquering  bands,  torn  tatters  of  rescued 
standards.  Later  he  understood  " — the  tension 
in  her  voice  was  piteous.  "  What  did  he  do 
when  he  knew  that  he  could  never  fight  the 
battles  he  had  chosen  ?  Did  he  fight  those  of 
God's  making?  or  did  he  turn  his  face  to  the 

C 


34  "PUNCHINELLO" 

wall  ?  What  did  he  do,  mine  own  ? "  Her 
arms  were  round  me,  her  sweet,  brave  face  with 
dimmed  eyes  was  pressed  to  mine.  "  What 
did  he  do,  my  Tony?  What  will  he  do,  my 
heart  ?  "     Her  face  was  working  and  white. 

And  now — I  write  it  with  touch  of  shame  for 
all  the  lapse  of  years — instead  of  comforting 
her,  I  dragged  myself  away  from  the  loving 
clasp  of  her  arms,  and  dashed  myself  on  the 
ground. 

"  It  is  not  true  ! "  I  sobbed.  "  It  is  a  lie— a 
lie !  "  I  shouted,  striving  to  believe  the  falseness 
of  my  own  assertion.  "  Mother  !  mother  !  "  I 
pushed  my  wet  face  into  the  folds  of  her  gown. 
"  Mother,  I  am  no  Punchinello  !  I  am  straight ! 
These  thick  velvet  folds  do  the  mischief."  I 
tugged  at  my  blouse.  "  Mother,  I  have  no 
hump.  I  shall  grow  tall  and  strong — be  a 
soldier,  mother." 

Still  she  did  not  speak,  but  lifted  me  from 
the  floor  on  to  her  knees,  and  waited  till  my 
sobbing  subsided  for  very  dearth  of  breath. 

"  Be  a  man,  sweetheart,"  she  said  at  last ;  "  do 
not  fret  that  life  can  hold  no  battles  for  you ; 
you  will  have  enough  to  conquer,  my  poor 
laddie."     Her  kisses  covered  my  face. 

"  If  I  must  have  a  hump,"  I  wailed,  "  and  be 


"PUNCHINELLO"  35 

like  old  Martin  in  the  village,  I  had  rather  be  a 
daftie  like  him,  and  not  understand." 

"  Hush,  hush  !  "  She  quelled  the  torrent  of 
my  passion  with  a  loving  hand.  "Dear,  you 
have  one  gift  by  God's  grace ;  let  other  things 
go  by.  Cleave  to  your  music.  It  is  not  only 
by  battles  that  men  make  undying  names." 

I  lifted  up  my  blurred  face.  "  He  called  me 
Punchinello,"  I  said. 

"  And  what  shall  we  call  him  ? "  said  my 
mother,  with  a  flash  of  the  temper  that  had 
reddened  Cosmo's  ears.  "  There  are  worse 
names  than  Punchinello,"  and  she  muttered 
something  beneath  her  breath  that  sat  strangely 
on  her  Madonna  mouth. 

"  I  will  not  go  to  the  masque,"  I  faltered.  "  I 
understand." 

And  thus  I  learnt  that  by  God's  branding  I 
was  Punchinello. 


II 


IN  my  life,  as  it  lies  behind  me,  a  gray,  in- 
determinate sea,  sharp  crags  of  incident 
stand  out,  and  on  these  I^  purpose  to  string  my 
clumsy  tale.  The  realization  of  my  infirmity 
at  seven  years  of  age,  the  first  crag,  and  from 
this  I  leap  on  ten  years.  I  should,  following 
my  own  desire,  have  written  the  history  of  this 
time,  telling  of  a  boy's  fight  with  fate,  and  of 
a  dear  woman's  loving  aid.  But  I  am  old,  and 
every  day  I  feel  my  hold  on  life  slacken.  This 
knowledge  would  hasten  the  most  dilatory 
hand  ;  and  again  I  want  to  write  of  Nancy. 
So  I  will  skip  these  ten  years,  which  indeed 
held  nothing  but  a  training  in  music  from  our 
organist ;  an  ever-increasing  solicitude  concern- 
ing my  health  from  my  dear  mother,  and  the 
breaking  into  womanhood  of  Cecily.  From  the 
day  I  learned  from  Cosmo's  gibe  how  heavily 
God's  hand  had  fallen  on  me,  I  developed  some- 
thing of  an  antagonistic  attitude  towards  life 
and  its  pleasures.     I  had  never  been  used  to  be 

86 


"PUNCHINELLO"  37 

shy ;  indeed,  with  the  vanity  fostered  by  my 
mother,  and  my  companions,  who,  carefully  in- 
structed, never  jarred  on  my  egoistic  felicity,  I 
was  over-bold  ;  but  the  bitter  revelation  of  an 
afternoon  changed  me  utterly.  It  was  all  I 
could  do,  I  remember,  having  gained  the  key 
to  the  sympathetic  environment  that  had  so 
puzzled  me,  to  face  a  stranger.  That  terrible 
excrescence  between  my  shoulders  grew,  in  fact, 
but  slowly,  though  in  my  fevered  imagination 
it  took  weekly  distinctive  shape  and  weight. 
I  myself  laboured  to  a  pitiful  height,  some  four 
feet  ten  inches,  with  heavy  shoulders  and  mas- 
sive sunken  head.  I  could  not  spit  a  forgiveness 
at  Cosmo  in  mine  old  age  for  his  brutal  veracity  ; 
but,  nevertheless,  I  grant  he  named  me  truly. 
I  am,  indeed,  a  Punchinello. 

I  rest  on  my  seventeenth  year,  for  it  was  at 
this  age  an  event  occurred  that  was  the  cause 
of  my  leaving  home  for  a  period.  I  say  the 
cause,  because  I  left  home  owing  to  the  episode  ; 
but  I  know  that  my  mother  had  had  it  in  her 
mind  for  some  time  to  send  me  abroad,  an 
ambition  that  I  had  fostered  to  the  greatest 
extent  of  my  ability.  Thrown  on  myself  for 
interest,  and  fearing  companionship,  I  slaved 
unintermittently    at     my    music,    under    Fritz 


38  "PUNCHINELLO" 

Ooterwint,  organist  of  our  church,  who  in- 
structed me  also  in  counterpoint  and  harmony. 
He  was  a  kindly  man,  of  a  patience  more 
common  to  moralists  than  musicians,  and  bore 
the  sounds  of  his  choirs  with  a  fortitude 
that  should  have  earned  him  a  crown  in  the 
Golden  Land  of  the  future.  While  under  his 
tuition  I  needly  hardly  say  I  composed  love- 
songs,  oratorios,  symphonies,  madrigals,  and 
ballads.  He  would  sigh  sometimes  as  I  thrum- 
med in  his  ears  the  fruits  of  my  fecund  imagina- 
tion, calling  on  him  at  short  intervals  to  admire 
freely.  I  had  a  passion  for  the  writing  of 
anthems  in  those  days,  which  in  no  wise  inter- 
fered with  a  taste  for  lighter  music.  "  Dear 
boy,"  he  would  say  with  his  patient  smile, 
dragging  a  red  pencil  ruthlessly  the  while 
through  my  most  cherished  combinations  of 
notes,  "  let  us  have  patience  —  be  Palestrina, 
Beethoven,  Handel,  Bach,  in  turn,  not  all  to- 
gether. Your  life  is  still  to  come,"  and  then 
he  would  fling  my  MS.  at  my  head  ;  and  I 
would  catch  it,  smiling  somewhat  wryly,  and 
go  home  across  the  fields  to  my  mother,  who 
ever  praised  and  listened.  Let  us  be  true,  my 
chronicle.  I  was  a  pitiful  figure  enough,  God 
knows ;  yet   I   was  a  jackanapes   of  the  first 


PUNCHINELLO "  39 

water  at  that  age,  and  as  proud  of  my  musical 
brayings  and  squeakings  as  other  youths  of  their 
fine  figures  and  courtly  tongues. 

It  happened  that  one  day  I  brought  him  an 
anthem  of  my  writing,  to  which  he  accorded 
some  of  his  rare  praise  ;  at  which,  for  all  my 
indifferent  air,  I  was  much  delighted,  for  I  knew 
Ooterwint,  for  all  his  queer  sayings  and  eccen- 
tric doings,  to  be  as  full  of  music  as  an  egg 
of  meat,  and  when  he  grunted  approbation, 
turning  the  leaves  hurriedly,  I  grew  hot  with 
delight. 

At  this  time  my  prime  ambition  was  to  hear 
something  of  my  writing  given  in  public,  I 
suffering  from  no  qualms  as  to  its  sufficiency 
of  merit,  and  enjoying  prematurely  the  savour 
of  fame.  Holding  this  a  golden  opportunity, 
I  straightway  prayed  him  to  allow  it  to  be 
rendered  in  our  village  church,  which  boasted 
in  its  choir  two  fine  voices.  The  soprano  was 
indeed  a  magnificent  organ  presented  by  some 
fantasy  of  fate  to  a  woman  as  devoid  of  all 
understanding  of  the  deeper  meaning  of  music 
as  any  stone.  Still  she  had  a  fair  ear,  and  if 
sufficiently  trained  occasionally  simulated  some 
shadow  of  passion  and  emotion.  The  other 
voice  was  a  baritone — invariably  designated  a 


40  "  PUNCHINELLO »' 

tenor  by  its  owner.  (I  have  never  yet  met  a 
man  who,  except  under  compulsion,  would 
acknowledge  his  voice  a  baritone ;  they  are 
always  tenors.)  The  remainder  of  the  choir 
was  composed  of  average  voices,  such  as  com- 
monly form  the  body  of  their  choir  in  country 
churches  ;  but  they  were  all  taught  with  infinite 
care  by  Ooterwint,  whose  music  was  his  life, 
and  who  proudly  boasted  that  his  choir  stood 
among  the  best  in  the  country  parishes  of  all 
England.  Although  he  did  not  negative  my 
wish  when  first  I  told  him  of  it,  he  laughed  with 
a  touch  of  bitterness. 

"  Dulcie  Graham  of  course  will  take  the  first 
part,"  he  said  at  last,  and  he  whistled  the  melody 
of  the  opening  phrase.  "  What  words  !  "  he  said 
gently  to  himself ;  "  and  you  have  well  matched 
the  music.  *  Set  me  as  a  seal  upon  thy  hearty 
as  a  seal  upon  thine  arm  :  for  love  is  strong  as 
deaths  is  strong  as  death^ — a  fine  crescendo — 
^is  strong  as  death!  Let  us  pray  Miss  Dulcie 
may  catch  some  understanding  of  the  fact — 
^Jealousy  is  cruel  as  the  grave! — I'll  lay  you  a 
wager,  Anthony,  she  proclaims  that  with  the 
most  placid  intonation — *  The  coals  thereof  are 
coals  of  fire^  which  hath  a  most  vehement 
flame! — Here   we   have  the  man's   voice.      To 


*'  PUNCHINELLO  "  41 

God  we  had  a  genuine  tenor !  Ah,  good  ! 
good  !  —  *  Many  waters  cannot  quench  love^ 
neither  can  the  floods  drown  it^  Now  we  have 
the  body  of  the  choir — '  If  a  7nan  would  give  all 
the  substance  of  his  house  for  love,  it  would 
utterly  be  contemned!  They  will  shout  that 
grandly.  It  is  indeed  a  fair  truth.  You  have  a 
happy  suggestion  of  water  here,  *  Many  waters 
cannot  quench  love!  I  have  known  a  woman's 
tears  go  far  towards  drowning  it,  nevertheless," 
he  muttered.  "  I  like  not  these  chords,"  he  said, 
with  a  sudden  dash  of  the  old  familiar  pencil ; 
"they  are  too  thin.  You  must  re-write  this 
passage.  But  for  the  rest,  it  is  excellent — most 
excellent.  You  have  brought  the  very  note  of 
scorn  into  this  phrase,  *  If  a  man  would  give  all 
the  substance  of  his  house  for  love,  it  would 
utterly  be  contemned  —  utterly  be  contemned! 
You  linger  excellently."  His  sharp  brown  eyes 
twinkled  as  he  looked  on  me.  "  Think  much  of 
love,  Tony  ?  " 

And  I,  fool  that  I  was,  answered  him  in  the 
fulness  of  my  ignorance.  "  Love,"  I  laughed. 
"  I  regard  it  as  an  argument  upon  which  to 
hang  my  music." 

He  pulled  my  papers  together,  and  pushed 
them  towards  me. 


42  ''PUNCHINELLO" 

"  You  are  a  clever  lad,  Anthony,"  he  said  ; 
"but  there  are  things  of  which  you  are  igno- 
rant, in  spite  of  your  youth.  However,  in  justice, 
I  admit  that  love  has  made  you  an  excellent 
argument.  We  will  have  your  anthem  when 
you  will.  Master  Gregory,  our  baritone,  casts, 
I  am  told,  sheep's  eyes  at  Miss  Dulcie,  who  is 
not  indifferent.  Between  the  composer,  who 
understands  love  in  the  abstract  as  an  argu- 
ment" — he  smiled  not  unkindly — "and  the 
exponents  of  the  argument,  who  know  its  prac- 
tice, we  should  have  fine  music,  eh,  Tony  ? 
^ Love  is  strong  as  death,'"  he  mocked  me 
openly.  "^  If  a  man  would  give  all  the  substance 
of  his  house  for  love,  he  would  utterly  be  con- 
temned^ There  must  be  something  in  it,  An- 
thony— something  strong,  perhaps  dangerous. 
A  wise  man  has  said  of  love,  '  in  life  it 
doth  much  mischief.'  He  may  have  begun 
by  using  it  as  merely  an  argument."  He  locked 
the  organ,  and  put  his  hand  on  my  shoulder. 
"  What  say  you,  Tony  ?  " 

I  laughed,  and  flung  my  glove  at  Fortune's 
feet,  puzzling  awhile  over  those  chords  at  which 
he  had  taken  exception.  "  I  am  not  afraid. 
These  things  are  not  for  hunchbacks.  Give  me 
satisfied    ambition,   an    applauding   crowd,  the 


**  PUNCHINELLO  "  43 

substance  of  a  man's  house,"  I  quoted  irrever- 
ently, "and  let  them  take  their  love." 

"You  are  a  fool,  Master  Anthony,"  he  re- 
torted civilly,  and  jangling  the  great  keys  in 
his  pocket,  went  his  way  and  left  me  staring. 


Ill 


As  I  write  these  memories  solely  for  my 
own  pleasuring,  I  may  linger  as  the 
fancy  takes  me,  and  indeed,  if  needful,  I  have  a 
valid  excuse  to  hand  for  this  lengthy  detailing 
of  the  story  of  my  beloved  anthem.  It  was 
thanks  to  this  that  I  so  soon  found  myself 
abroad.  But  even  my  own  patience  revolts  at 
thought  of  recapitulating  in  detail  my  stormy 
endeavours,  Miss  Dulcie's  impregnable  calm, 
the  nervous  tremors  of  the  baritone  and  choir, 
the  chuckles  and  chortles  of  Ooterwint. 

Enough  to  say  that  at  last  I  felt  the  limit  of 
excellence  attainable  by  the  choristers  had  been 
reached,  and  determined  that  my  anthem  should 
be  heard  on  the  following  Sunday.  Some  hint 
of  it  had  reached  the  neighbourhood,  and  there 
were  not  lacking  folks  who  regarded  the  ven- 
ture with  dubiety  ;  for  although  in  every  prayer 
book  was  clearly  inscribed  "  in  quires  and  places 
where  they  sing  here  followeth  the  anthem,"  an 


"  PUNCHINELLO  "  45 

anthem  at  that  date  in  village  churches  was  a 
rare  if  not  an  unknown  interlude,  and  there 
were  some  who  thought  it  savoured  of  popish 
practices. 

I  awoke  on  the  morning  of  the  eventful  Sun- 
day with  a  consciousness  of  the  day  holding 
great  things,  which  I  struggled  to  place  in  my 
drowsy  sluggishness.  Suddenly  it  leaped  on 
me  through  the  mists  of  my  departing  sleep — 
my  anthem !  I  jumped  from  my  bed,  and 
hurried  through  my  ablutions  while  the  melody 
of  the  opening  phrases  sang  sweetly  through 
my  splashings.  I  was  ever  a  shade  superstitious  ; 
and,  looking  from  my  window,  rejoiced  that  the 
day  augured  so  well.  The  gardens  lay  in  a 
blaze  of  sunshine,  and  the  dews,  yet  undried, 
turned  the  lawns  to  a  white  sparkle  of  diamonds. 
The  stars  of  climbing  clematis  which  struggled 
through  my  open  casement  were  sweet  with  all 
the  fragrance  of  newly-burst  buds.  It  was  one  of 
those  fair  days  on  which  it  seems  as  if  God  rests 
loving  hands  on  the  world,  saying  that  His 
work  is  good,  and  that  all  creation  praises  Him 
in  a  song  of  gladness.  Beneath  my  window 
there  was  a  flush  of  pink,  where  the  heavy- 
headed  roses  wafted  up  their  breath  as  incense ; 
beyond  them  the  white  lilies  bowed  their  pure 


46  "PUNCHINELLO" 

petals ;  here  a  patch  of  pansy-purpled  ground, 
there  an  angry  flare  of  scarlet  geraniums.  A 
wilderness  of  gilliflowers,  sweet  williams,  and 
matted  pinks  cloyed  the  scented  air ;  and,  cleav- 
ing through  the  sweetness,  came  the  whistling 
of  blackbirds,  and  the  songs  of  full-throated 
thrushes. 

Fortunate  environment  lends  to  optimistic 
recognition,  and  I  easily  stifled  my  apprehen- 
sion of  the  choir's  possibilities,  comforting  my- 
self, as  I  tied  my  cravat,  with  the  remembrance 
of  Dulcie's  last  rendering.  She  had  caught 
either  the  infection  of  my  enthusiasm  or  pos- 
sibly the  meaning  of  Solomon's  words.  I 
remembered  that  she  and  the  baritone  tarried 
in  the  dusky  sweetness  of  summer  nights,  later 
than  the  proprieties  allowed,  and  caught  a  clue 
to  the  understanding  of  this  late  emotion. 
"  Many  waters  cannot  quench  lover  How 
triumphantly  she  had  filled  the  church !  Her 
golden  notes  had  taken  wings,  filling  the  arches 
and  floating  forth  this  passionate  word  of  a 
wise  king,  had  gone  through  the  opened,  painted 
glasses  of  the  windows,  in  comfort  to  the  dead 
that  lay  without  in  the  stillness  of  the  church- 
yard. It  was  a  glorious  voice,  and  when 
vitalised  held  the  desire  of  thousands  of  lovers 


"PUNCHINELLO"  47 

long  since  dry  dust.  I  forgive  her  final  fiasco 
for  love  of  that  last  rehearsal.  "  Neither  can 
the  floods  drown  it''  Ooterwint  had  done  his 
best.  The  sobbing  accompaniment  of  that 
great  avowal  had  sustained  her.  The  choir  had 
thundered  it.  A  pitiful  conceit ;  but  I  wondered, 
as  I  listened,  that  the  shrouds  and  coffins 
around  us  did  not  burst  asunder,  and  the  dear 
dead  rise  with  loving,  outspread  hands.  "  Love 
is  strong  as  death— as  death!'  When  she  sang,  it 
seemed  indeed  somewhat  stronger,  and  the 
long-since  dead  burst  their  bonds,  and  the 
churchyard  was  peopled  with  a  thundering 
throng.  And  all  for  walking  with  that  im- 
mature baritone  in  the  sweet  stillness  of  sum- 
mer lanes.  At  least,  it  was  to  that  I  ascribed 
the  erotic  rendering. 

After  breakfast  we  started  together  for  the 
church,  walking  soberly  ;  my  mother,  as  was  ever 
her  habit  at  this  time,  silent,  communing 
with  God,  if  her  eyes  were  aught  of  guide,  and 
the  tenderest  smile  playing  round  her  sweet 
curved  mouth  as  she  marked  me  decapitating 
the  wind-flowers  and  nodding  bluebells  in  my 
fret. 

Thanks  to  the  anodyne  of  time,  I  linger  not 
ungratefully  on  this  sad  season.      For  months 


48  "PUNCHINELLO" 

after  I  could  not  bear  the  faintest  reference  to 
that  day,  but  now  I  call  to  mind  every  trifle  of 
our  progress  to  the  church  that  was  to  be  the 
scene  of  my  undoing.  We  went  through  the 
meadows,  following  the  worn  line  of  many  feet, 
while  beside  us  the  gay  green  of  the  coming 
corn  rustled  and  whispered  in  the  morning 
breeze  ;  on  the  hedges  the  convolvuli  turned  the 
sweet  grace  of  their  flushed  faces  to  the  skies. 
Before  us,  at  short  distance,  the  grey  Norman 
tower  of  our  village  church  stood  stolidly.  It 
was  yet  early  for  the  congregation,  but  now  and 
again  a  man  or  a  woman  passed  us,  and  we  saw 
them  flit  through  the  white  tombstones  and 
enter  the  church  door.  As  we  reached  the 
entrance  I  was  seized  with  a  spasm  of  nervous 
terror,  and  would  fain  have  stayed  without.  It 
rings  conceitedly  in  the  phrase,  but  to  be  candid, 
it  was  Dulcie  I  doubted,  for  all  her  sweet  sing- 
ing at  that  last  rehearsal.  In  later  years  this 
calm  complacency  on  the  eve  of  a  performance 
deserted  me  in  some  measure,  but  I  had  no 
terrors  regarding  myself  in  my  boyhood,  for 
such  is  surely  seventeen,  when  it  measures  the 
years  of  a  man  ;  women  I  have  known  who 
counted  but  sixteen  years  of  life.  Cecily  was  but 
a  year  and  two  months  my  senior,  but  she  had 


**  PUNCHINELLO  "  49 

the  wisdom  of  the  world  at  her  finger-tips,  and 
would  often  instruct  me,  saying,  "  You  are  but 
a  boy,  Tony,"  in  tones  that  suggested  a  decade 
at  least  between  our  respective  ages. 

Now  it  had  been  arranged  that  Ooterwint 
should  accompany  my  composition,  and  that 
I  should  sit  in  my  mother's  pew  as  usual,  taking 
no  part  in  the  performance  ;  so  after  having  paid 
a  hurried  visit  to  Ooterwint,  who  met  me  with 
laughter  and  soothing  words  in  the  vestry,  I 
returned  to  my  mother's  side.  Never  had  the 
morning  prayers  seemed  to  me  so  interminable. 
I  could  have  wept  in  the  Psalms.  David,  no 
doubt,  was  an  excellent  man  ;  he  undeniably 
possessed  the  gift  of  language,  but  he  is  long, 
very  long.  I  stood  first  on  one  foot,  then  on 
the  other  as  the  choir  prattled  through  the 
vicissitudes  of  the  sparrow  upon  the  housetop. 
It  is  an  unhappy  comparison,  intended  no  doubt 
to  suggest  forlornness,  but  trenching  somewhat 
upon  the  absurd.  By  a  malicious  turn  of  fortune 
the  lessons  were  long.  I  kicked  the  varnished 
seats  and  a  worn  hassock  till  I  choked  for  the 
dust  it  held.  I  was  in  such  a  fever  by  the  time 
I  learned  in  my  Prayer-book  "  in  quires  and 
places  where  they  sing  here  followeth  the 
anthem,"  that  my  mother  lifted  her  head  quicker 

D 


50  "PUNCHINELLO" 

from  her  devotions  than  was  her  wont,  being 
attracted  by  my  fidgetings. 

"  Anthony,"  she  said  reprovingly,  *'  Anthony," 
with  a  severe  lingering  on  the  second  syllable. 

"  She  will  ruin  it,"  I  whispered  for  answer ; 
"  she  will,  I  know  she  will ! "  But  for  all  my 
anxiety  I  pulled  myself  together  and  adopted 
a  devotional  attitude,  refraining  from  a  furious 
kick  that  I  was  speeding  on  its  way.  At  last 
we  came  to  the  Collect  for  Grace.  The  grand 
appeal,  droned  drowsily  by  our  Vicar,  sounded 
through  the  church ;  the  bowed  heads  lifted  to 
swell  the  Amen — a  silence^then  the  prelude 
to  my  anthem. 

I  could  hardly  hear — my  heart  was  hurrying 
so  ;  the  blood  knocked  furiously  in  my  temples, 
overcoming  the  music,  while  chill  shivers  raced 
each  other  down  my  spine.  As  I  recovered 
myself  I  grasped  that  Dulcie  was  singing  the 
opening  phrase.  Now  in  my  writing  I  had 
struggled,  as  is  ever  the  way  with  young  com- 
posers, to  imitate  a  great  man,  and  **  il  Sassone," 
as  they  termed  Handel  in  Italy,  was  my  god. 
It  is  well  known  that  his  music  is  essentially 
characterised  by  a  softness  and  suavity  borrowed 
from  the  Italian  schools,  and  that  he  allowed  it 
in  great  measure  to  counterbalance  the  German 


*' PUNCHINELLO"  51 

element.  Being  young  and  ardent,  I  was,  no 
doubt,  plus  royaliste  que  le  roi,  and  followed 
Corelli  with  even  more  enthusiasm  than  my 
leader.  It  is  sufficient  to  say  that  my  music 
was  essentially  emotional,  so  much  so  as  to 
border  on  the  sensuous,  and  depended  im- 
mensely on  its  exponents.  By  this  I  mean  that, 
ignorant  as  I  was  of  form,  my  anthem  was  little 
more  than  a  series  of  melodies  ;  and  melody,  as 
the  merest  tyro  knows,  is  irretrievably  marred 
by  an  unsympathetic  rendering.  Now  Dulcie 
was  rendering  it  in  a  tone  that  combined  sar- 
casm and  contempt,  and  hurrying  the  time 
cruelly.  The  organ  panted  onward,  and  I 
listened,  fighting  for  calm.  Her  carelessness 
increased  ;  she  sang  falsely,  falling  flat  with 
cheerfuUest  complacency.  "Love  is  strong  as 
death"  she  chirped  gaily,  with  a  strong  note  of 
interrogation  in  her  voice,  and  a  bitter  glance 
at  the  baritone.  "Jealousy  is  cruel  as  the 
grave  :  the  coals  thereof  are  coals  of  fire^  which 
hath  a  most  vehement  flajne."  His  voice  now 
joined  her.  I  had  written  the  most  exquisite 
canon  here,  and  they  stumbled  through  it 
together,  she  petulantly  and  he  sullenly. 
I  restrained  myself  with  difficulty,  while  my 
mother    watched     me    nervously,    and    Cecily 


52  "PUNCHINELLO" 

giggled.  The  choir  burst  in  and  assuaged  me 
somewhat,  while  my  wits  worked  to  solve  the 
reason  of  this  terrible  rendering.  I  anticipate 
somewhat,  but  taking  advantage  of  the  fact  that 
this  MSS.  is  for  mine  eyes  alone,  I  must  write 
that  later  it  transpired  that  these  two  had 
quarrelled  the  previous  evening,  and  Miss  Dulcie, 
with  truly  feminine  astuteness,  had  seized  this 
opportunity  to  flaunt  love.  The  choir  sang  well 
enough,  the  altos  and  the  trebles  chiming 
through  the  aisles  and  losing  themselves  in  the 
carved  arches  overhead ;  the  booming  basses 
joined  them,  the  pulsating  melody  growing 
stronger  and  higher  till  it  seemed  to  be^t 
against  the  walls  of  the  church  like  a  panting 
bird  seeking  egress.  But  my  supreme  effect,  on 
which  I  had  calculated,  fell  dead.  I  had  im- 
agined the  soprano  rising  out  of  the  subsiding 
tumult  in  clear- winged  notes :  "  Many  waters 
cannot  quench  love^  neither  can  the  floods 
drown  it^  I  hear  the  false  notes  now  in  all 
their  cheap  flippancy.  Oh,  Dulcie !  Dulcie ! 
I  had  thought  better  things  of  you  than,  for 
a  turn  of  spite,  so  to  ruin  my  anthem.  I 
could  better  have  heard  Handel  murdered, 
or  listened  with  indifference  to  her  pestilent 
poises    making    havoc   with   Purcell — but    this 


"PUNCHINELLO  53 

was  mine  own  child,  and  I  loved  every  quaver 
that  went  to  its  making. 

Poor  Dulcie  !  the  grasses  are  waving  high 
above  you  now,  and  the  baritone  has  mourned 
and  has  found  comfort  again  on  other  lips.  I 
forgive  you,  but  it  was  a  sharp  unkindness  at 
the  time — my  teeth  are  all  on  edge  in  sheer 
remembrance. 

"  Neither  can  the  floods  drown  it,'  she  sang 
so  out  of  tune  that  she  almost  sang  in  tune — 
another  tune  !  I  could  not  bear  it — I  could  not 
"  Stop ! "  I  shouted.  My  mother  tugged  my 
sleeve,  my  sister  raised  a  reproving  eyebrow, 
Ooterwint  halted  in  sheer  surprise.  I  was  too 
wild  to  heed  them.  "  For  pity's  sake,"  I  cried, 
"  go  no  further."  And  then  1  left  my  pew,  and 
made  for  the  door.  Even  in  my  agitation  I 
noted  the  shocked  glances  of  the  villagers  ;  the 
furious  glare  of  the  Rector,  uncomfortably 
hurried  to  his  homily,  pierced  my  back,  but  even 
at  the  asinine  age  of  seventeen  I  had  discovered 
the  comforting  value  of  an  exact  localization  of 
personal  woe.  I  hated  the  sense  of  scenic  effect. 
My  "  Stop  !  "  two  seconds  after  I  had  voiced  it 
filled  me  with  shame,  and  I  burnt  with  mingled 
wrath  and  nervousness  as  I  marched  down  the 
aisle.     But  whatever  I  suffered  in  my  exit,  it  in 


54  "PUNCHINELLO" 

no  wise  matched  the  agony  of  mind  concomitant 
with  longer  waiting  upon  Dulcie's  shrilly-voiced 
spite.  With  laughter  so  akin  to  tears  and  the 
salt  of  memories  smarting  in  my  eyes,  I  cannot 
but  enjoy  the  thought  of  that  hour.  It  was  the 
most  supremely  ludicrous  moment  of  my  life  ; 
but  at  the  time  I  detected  no  hint  of  comedy. 
I  rushed  home,  I  remember,  and  locked  myself 
into  my  room,  and  raged  and  rampaged,  re- 
fusing to  partake  of  our  mid-day  meal  although 
keen  with  hunger  and  tormented  with  a  desire 
to  shout  my  grief  to  a  sympathetic  audience.  I 
could  have  hanged  the  choir  high  as  Haman, 
and  reserved  Dulcie  and  the  baritone  for  a 
harder  fate.  I  cried,  so  far  as  I  remember,  over 
the  unhappy  fate  of  my  music.  I  was  only  a 
lad,  sickly  and  conceited,  and  for  the  time  my 
disappointment  touched  anguish.  Then  my 
mother  came  and  comforted  me,  and  I  con- 
sented to  be  comforted,  realizing  fully  the  while 
the  extent  of  my  complaisance,  for  it  hurt  her 
cruelly  to  see  me  grieved.  She  promised  me 
that  I  should  go  to  Town  to  study.  It  was 
a  glorious  anthem,  had  its  rendering  been  but 
passable.     Some  day  I  would  be  a  great  man. 

Dulcie  was she  paused — an  eloquent  pause. 

And  by  some  fantastic  turn  of  fancy  my  mind 


"PUNCHINELLO"  55 

leapt  back  to  a  hot  summer  day — a  sobbing 
child,  half  startled  out  of  his  tears  by  the  sudden 
transformation  of  a  Madonna  into  a  virago,  and 
clack  !  clack !  an  angry  hand  vibrated  on  the 
scarlet  ears  of  a  boy  ! 

"  You  shall  go  away  and  study,  Tony,"  she 
said,  "and  some  day  we  shall  all  be  proud." 
She  patted  my  shoulder  comfortingly.  (I  have 
the  excuse  of  senility  that  I  so  dwell  on  these 
memories.)  "  It  is  ridiculous  to  keep  you  here. 
Ooterwint  tells  me  that  you  can  do  anything 
you  will,"  she  faltered  sweetly.  "  And  now, 
my  Tony,"  she  whispered  through  her  kisses, 
"come  and  have  something  to  eat" 


IV 


I  REMEMBER  during  my  last  weeks  at 
home  a  great  excitement  trembling  in  the 
air  ;  jumbled  recollections  of  motherly  exhorta- 
tions concerning  flannel  next  the  skin,  and 
hinted  warnings  regarding  the  wickedness  of 
towns  still  linger  in  the  vast  limbo  of  my 
memory.  Even  Cecily's  attitude  towards  me 
at  this  time  savoured  of  respect  and  lost  the 
note  of  patronage  that  had  formerly  charac- 
terized it.  Only  Ooterwint  mocked  at  the  fond 
foolishness  of  women,  although  he  openly  re- 
joiced at  the  good  fortune  that  had  befallen 
me. 

"  Every  man  has  once  his  chance,"  he  would 
say,  half  in  jest  and  half  in  earnest,  "  and  only 
once.  Grasp  it !  Hold  it  firm  !  Never  let  go  !  " 
and  then  he  quoted  the  immortal  words  :  "There 
comes  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men  which  taken 
at  the  flood  leads  on  to  fortune,"  while  I  listened, 
already  luxuriating  in  my  future   fame.      For 

56 


*'  PUNCHINELLO  '*  57 

the  pitiful  episode  of  my  anthem  he  had  nothing 
but  laughter.  "Your  face,  Tony — one  furious 
glance  of  murderous  impotence ! "  and  then 
would  follow  a  Homeric  burst  of  mirth. 

"It  hurt,"  I  endeavoured  to  explain,  "  it  hurt. 
I  had  rather  have  burnt  it  than  have  suffered 
such  a  crucifixion." 

"  The  first  endeavour !  "  he  mocked,  "  the 
primary  effusion — so  hideously  mangled.  Oh, 
youth,  fair  gracious  youth,  to  be  so  delici- 
ously  at  the  beginning  of  things !  Did  it  ever 
strike  you,  Tony,  that  a  tremendous  despair 
argues  a  tremendous  hope  ?  " 

"  I  had  worked  so  hard!  "  I  stammered  ;  "and 
it  was  music." 

"  Worked  so  hard — seventeen  years  hold  your 
days,  eh,  Tony  ?  And  music  spelt  with  a  co- 
lossal M  !  I  have  worked  fifty  years,  and  I  still 
— honour  to  myself — write  music.  (I  knew  he 
was  thinking  of  his  choir.)  But  I  have  been 
blunted.  You  cannot  credit  me,  but  I  envy  you 
your  fever  and  fret.  Time  was" — I  looked  at 
him  all  agog  with  expectancy.  Ooterwint's 
moments  of  expansion  were  rare — "  Time  was 
when  I,  too,  would  have  known  hell  hearing 
*  Set  me  as  a  seal^  "  he  jigged  in  exact  imitation 
of  Miss  Dulcie.     "But   now,"  he  shrugged  his 


58  "PUNCHINELLO" 

shoulders,  and  his  eyes  twinkled,  "  I  have 
written  for  fifty  years.  Go  on  and  prosper "  ; 
and  so  he  bade  me  farewell. 

«  *  *  4:  « 

It  had  been  arranged  that  I  should  go  to 
London  and  study  under  Mathieson,  who  was 
then  considered  in  the  front  rank  regarding  con- 
trapuntal instruction.  I  was  to  live  in  a  lodging, 
and  spend  my  days  at  the  rooms  where  he  beat 
knowledge  into  the  heads  of  some  half-dozen 
pupils. 

On  my  journey  to  Town  a  fantastic  incident 
happened  to  me,  of  which  I  will  write,  by  reason 
of  its  holding  a  curious  shadowing  of  the  future, 
and  also  because  the  episode  is  not  devoid  of  a 
certain  humour.  It  was  indeed  of  a  caustic 
flavour  at  the  time,  but  is  so  sweetened  by  the 
lapse  of  years  that  the  comedy  concomitant  on 
my  first  squiring  of  dames  is  not  a  harsh  re- 
membrance. 

We  were  but  a  stage  from  London,  and  had 
halted  awhile  at  Doynings  in  order  that  fresh 
horses  should  be  substituted  for  our  lagging 
cattle.  Being  unaccustomed  to  travelling,  I  was 
somewhat  weary,  and  gladly  welcomed  these 
opportunities  of  descending  from  the  coach ;  in 
this  instance  I  hailed  the  occasion  with  cheerful 


"PUNCHINELLO"  59 

alacrity,  little  guessing  at  the  tempestuous  hours 
that  were  winging  their  way  towards  me. 

I  entered  the  hostelry,  and  calling  for  a 
draught  of  ale,  proceeded  to  settle  myself  into 
the  most  comfortable  lounge  in  the  tap- room. 
I  had  fain  have  rested  in  silence,  but  mine  host 
carried  a  long  tongue,  and  started  on  a  generous 
length  of  gossip,  regardless  of  my  yawns  ;  and 
when  my  attention  too  visibly  slackened,  his 
round  face  took  on  an  added  access  of  impor- 
tance as  he  hinted  darkly  at  a  tale  that  should 
effectually  rout  my  slumbers,  nodding  his  head 
the  while  towards  the  stairs.  An  accomplished 
gossip,  he  desired  to  keep  his  tit-bit  for  the 
end,  and  used  it  as  a  stimulant  to  attention  while 
carefully  avoiding  its  expression.  My  fellow- 
companions  hung  about  the  doors  in  twos  and 
threes,  sometimes  joining  in  our  talk,  but  rapidly 
wearying  of  my  garrulous  gossip.  At  last,  I 
myself  could  no  longer  endure  the  patter  of  his 
tongue,  and  half  rose  from  my  chair,  when  he 
quickly  laid  his  hand  on  my  arm  and  prayed  me 
hearken  to  the  romance  that  was  in  process  of 
being  enacted  beneath  his  roof  The  man  be- 
side him  jeered,  divining  a  ruse  by  which  he 
sought  to  hold  me  ;  but  now  it  seemed  indeed  as 
if  mine  host  would  string  his  hints  and  innu- 


6o  "  PUNCHINELLO  " 

endoes  into  a  plain  tale,  for  he  straightway 
opened  fire.  "An  elopement,"  he  gasped,  his 
ruddy  cheeks  purpling  with  excitement ;  "  two 
runaway  lovers — they  arrived  this  morning,  hear 
how  they  quarrel ! "  And,  sure  enough,  as 
he  spoke,  the  shrill  tones  of  a  woman,  mixed 
with  the  deeper  notes  of  a  man's  voice,  came 
floating  down  the  stairs. 

"  She  has  wearied  of  him  already,"  con- 
tinued our  host.  "  She  would  return  to  Town 
— he  would  have  her  press  on  to  Gurness  as 
first  planned.  Hark  !  she  is  something  of  a 
shrew  for  all  her  modish  air." 

"  How  have  they  come  to  quarrel  so  early?" 
I  queried,  roused  from  my  apathy,  while  the 
others  gathered  round  us. 

"Who  shall  explain  the  workings  of  a 
woman's  mind  ?  "  returned  the  host  "  An  he 
were  wise  he  would  further  her  wish,"  he  added, 
as  the  vixenish  voice  rose  high.  "  For  my 
part " 

What  he  would  have  said  I  know  not,  for  as 
he  nodded  his  head  with  sapient  air  a  door  was 
loudly  banged  above,  there  was  a  great  rustle 
and  stampede  on  the  stairs,  and  a  lady  suddenly 
appeared  at  the  entrance  leading  to  the  upper 
apartments  of  the  house.     She  was  followed  by 


"  PUNCHINELLO  "  6i 

a  young  man  with  a  shamed,  flushed  face,  who 
vainly  strove  to  restrain  her. 

"  Sylvia,"  he  mumbled  in  her  rear  ;  but  she 
heeded  him  not,  as  she  marched  steadily  to- 
wards the  landlord,  who,  suddenly  checked  in 
his  tale,  gasped  at  her  affrighted. 

"  At  what  hour  will  the  coach  start  for 
London  ? "  she  began  in  a  high-pitched  voice 
vibrating  with  emotion,  apparently  regardless 
of  the  stares  and  nudges  that  encompassed  her. 

To  be  honest,  I  stared  with  the  rest,  for  she 
made  a  pretty  picture  enough  in  her  silks  and 
satins,  with  the  powder  somewhat  shaken  from 
her  hair,  and  a  crimson  patch  of  fury  on  each 
cheek  paling  the  generous  rouge. 

Mine  host  bowed  low,  mumbling  something 
about  having  understood  that  she  had  desired 
two  places  taken  in  the  next  coach  that  passed 
to  Gurness — this  he  had  done — but  madam  had 
changed  her  mind — the  seats  were  paid  for — 
he  regretted,  etc. 

Such  was  his  agitation  that  an  incipient 
apoplexy  threatened  to  interrupt  his  winding 
phrases. 

Madam  stamped  an  imperious  foot. 

"  I  asked  you  at  what  hour  the  coach  left  for 
London  !  "  she  shrilled — a  virago  in  the  bud. 


62  "  PUNCHINELLO  " 

"  In  another  half-hour,"  gobbled  the  landlord. 

"  Take  one  seat,"  she  said  firmly,  with  a  most 
spiteful  emphasis  on  the  numeral,  and  an  ac- 
companying glare  at  the  youth  behind  her  ;  "  I 
return  by  it." 

Her  companion  essayed  another  remon- 
strance, laying  a  detaining  hand  on  her  arm  ; 
but  she  flung  it  off  furiously  with  a  passionate 
"  Touch  me  not ! "  and  darted  up  the  stairs 
again. 

We  heard  the  bang  of  a  door,  the  turning  of 
a  key  in  the  lock,  and  then  came  a  great  peace. 
All  eyes  were  fastened  on  the  luckless  gallant, 
who  stood  for  a  moment  braving  our  stares  ; 
and  then  he  flung  himself  out  of  the  house, 
apparently  finding  the  situation  intolerable. 

Though  laughter  bubbled  in  my  throat,  I  felt 
something  of  pity  for  him.  His  position  lacked 
dignity  in  marked  degree,  and  through  his  dis- 
comfiture he  looked  cut  to  the  heart  at  this 
inappropriate  termination  to  his  idyll.  Still 
his  demeanour  was  signalised  in  no  way  by 
despair,  and  when  some  five  minutes  later  he 
galloped  past  the  window,  spurring  his  horse 
to  its  utmost  speed,  he  carried  an  alert  air  of 
determination  that  suggested  a  conceived  plan 
of  action. 


"  PUNCHINELLO  "  63 

We  saw  no  more  of  the  lady  until  the  coach 
was  about  to  depart.  The  horses  were  rattling 
their  harness  in  an  anxious  fret  to  be  away, 
the  coachman  and  guard  were  exchanging  final 
words  on  the  iniquities  of  the  way  bill,  when 
suddenly  she  appeared,  and  clearing  her  way 
through  the  knot  of  assembled  people,  climbed 
into  her  seat.  An  amused  glance  or  so  fol- 
lowed her,  for  her  history  had  been  freely 
retailed  ;  and  audible  comments  on  her  townish 
graces  and  fashion  were  also  not  wanting. 

I  pitied  her  somewhat  for  the  awkwardness 
of  her  position,  for  in  that  time,  as  this,  for  a 
woman  to  travel  unattended,  was  to  expose  her- 
self to  much  unpleasantness  ;  and  I  noted  that 
though  she  carried  her  head  so  high,  her  face 
was  swollen  as  if  from  recent  crying,  and  that 
she  shrank  visibly  from  the  interested  eyes 
about  her. 

Now  the  coach  was  but  poorly  tenanted, 
holding  in  all  some  half-dozen  passengers,  of 
whom  five  were  of  the  yeoman  class.  The 
sixth  bore  the  appearance  of  an  antiquated 
beau,  who  by  strenuous  endeavour  strove  with 
scant  success  to  ward  off  all  appearance  of  age. 
It  was  he  who  had  ogled  the  distressed  damsel 
most  freely  ;  and  I  noted  that  instead  of  mount- 


64  "PUNCHINELLO" 

ing  to  the  box  seat  as  before,  he  sat  down 
within  the  coach,  apparently  desirous  of  be- 
guiling the  length  of  road  by  converse  with  his 
fair  companion. 

For  my  part,  loving  neither  the  society  of 
ladies  nor  the  interior  of  coaches,  I  was  about 
to  mount  to  my  old  seat,  when  madam  stuck 
her  head  from  the  window  and  pressed  me  to 
enter. 

Innocent  of  boorish  intention,  I  yet  protested 
my  preference  for  the  outside  ;  but  she  would 
take  no  denial,  and  I  most  unwillingly  entered 
the  coach. 

Now  came  a  blast  from  the  horn,  a  lurch  of 
the  vehicle,  and  we  were  away. 

Though  of  limited  intelligence  in  these 
matters,  even  my  obtuseness  was  not  proof 
against  understanding  the  reason  of  my  incar- 
ceration, for  the  disappointed  beau  scowled 
fiercely  on  my  entrance,  while  the  lady  in- 
sisted upon  my  taking  a  seat  near  her,  and 
promptly  started  a  most  vivacious  discourse. 

It  seemed  to  me,  from  certain  symptoms, 
that  the  bibulous  nose  of  the  beruffled  rake, 
who  sulked  opposite  us,  in  no  way  traduced 
him,  for  he  grew  more  and  more  incoherent  in 
his  talk,  and  otherwise  testified  to  the  generous 


"PUNCHINELLO"  65 

libations  he  had  imbibed.  Shortly,  to  my  in- 
tense gratitude,  he  slumbered  peacefully,  and 
my  companion  and   I   were  practically    alone. 

"  The  drunken  brute  !  "  she  snapped,  regard- 
ing him  with  much  disfavour  as  he  snored  with 
lolling  head. 

"  I  trust  he  had  not  insulted  you  before  my 
coming  ?  "  I  said  formally,  for  in  truth  I  felt  a 
little  shy  of  this  brilliant  lady. 

"  Ah,  no — and  with  so  valiant  a  defender  I 
fear  naught,"  she  responded,  with  a  twinkle  in 
her  eyes. 

I  feared  she  jested,  and  turned  away  rather 
sharply. 

"  La ! "  she  rattled  on  in  her  high,  mincing 
voice,  "  have  you  a  soul  above  women  ?  " 

"  No,  madam,"  I  returned  with  rising 
asperity,  "  but  a  body  beneath  them." 

"  Ah,  no,  no,"  she  cajoled.  "  Had  it  not  been 
for  you " — she  tossed  a  pregnant  glance  at 
the  slumbrous  swine  before  us — "  I  should 
have  suffered  a  —  er  —  temporary  incon- 
venience." 

She  had  an  arched  eyebrow,  and  she  utilised 
it.  "  Morpheus  would  no  doubt  have  saved  me 
— in  time — in  time.  But  all  things  come  in 
time," 

S 


66  "PUNCHINELLO" 

She  uttered  this  used  platitude  with  a 
sprightly  air  that  lent  it  virginity,  and  then 
glinted  an  arch  glance  at  me,  which  I  strove 
to  meet.  I  failed  ignominiously,  and  promptly 
feigned  an  incipient  catarrh,  and  turning  my 
head  aside,  buried  my  face  in  a  gay  bandana, 
and  blew  my  nose  with  a  great  noise.  Truth 
to  tell,  my  manners  were  not  over-burnished. 

"  Oh,  hist !  "  she  warned,  "  you  will  awake 
him,  and  I  so  desire  to  have  a  little  private 
converse  with  you.  Dare  I  " — she  clasped  a  pair 
of  much  be-ringed  hands — "plead  a  favour?" 

Dare  I,  jumped  my  mind  in  agonised  reflec- 
tion— dare  I  refuse  it  ?  For  I  had  no  desire 
to  be  saddled  with  her  company  or  her  affairs, 
and  was  counting  the  hours  to  our  arrival  in 
Town.  But  she  left  me  scant  space  for  reflec- 
tion, hustling  me  to  attention  by  pure  vigour  of 
speech. 

"You  may  not  listen,  but  you  shall  hear," 
exactly  phrases  her  attitude,  and  Heaven  knows 
she  was  not  chary  of  her  words.  She  told  me 
the  history  of  her  elopement,  painting  luckless 
Master  Chetwynd  in  the  most  sombre  of  hues, 
herself  in  the  most  innocent  of  tints.  She  had 
given  up  all  for  love,  had  broken  her  father's 
heart,  and  deliberately  relinquished  by  her  rash 


"PUNCHINELLO"  67 

act  all  possibility  of  benefiting  by  his  will — he 
never  forgave. 

She  paused,  bereft  of  breath,  and  I  seized  the 
fleeting  chance  and  inquired  the  reason  of  their 
quarrelling.  This  I  gathered  but  vaguely — for 
the  lady  sketched  the  premises  with  the  lightest 
hand — arose  from  jealousy  on  her  part  of  some 
past  inamorata  of  his.  She  had  apparently 
assailed  her  character  in  the  grossest  terms, 
and  he,  goaded  beyond  endurance,  had  fool- 
lishly  striven  to  defend  it,  whereat  madam  had 
promptly  bade  him  return  to  his  old  love,  and 
leave  her  to  return  to  London  to  throw  herself 
upon  the  clemency  of  her  parent. 

I  feared  to  word  my  thought  —  my  com- 
panion's air  suggested  ignorance  of  adverse 
criticism — but  I  could  not  help  thinking  that 
her  evident  belief  in  parental  forgiveness  and  his 
oblivion  of  things  past,  fitted  in  but  badly  with 
the  picture  she  had  drawn  of  a  furious  father, 
intent  on  testamentary  vengeance. 

Still  I  said  no  word,  knowing  the  futility  of 
reason  with  her  sex,  and  in  measure  forgiving 
her  the  length  of  her  tale  by  reason  of  the  time 
and  the  miles  it  had  covered. 

But  she,  not  content  with  an  acquiescent 
silence,  must  needs  jog   my  elbow  and  pester 


68  "  PUNCHINELLO  " 

me  with  questions  as  to  what  I  thought  of  her 
present  doings,  her  lover's  past  doings,  her 
father's  future  doings — while,  envying  him  his 
vicious  slumber,  I  stared  alternately  at  the  sleep- 
ing man  before  us  and  at  the  flying  landscape, 
striving  to  gather  from  the  aspect  of  the  coun- 
try how  far  we  were  from  our  destination  ;  but 
I  said  no  word,  being  terrorised  from  expression 
of  my  natural  candour,  and  for  the  moment 
being  only  conscious  of  a  gigantic  envy  of  the 
lucky  youth  who  had  escaped  from  the  clutches 
of  the  damsel  at  my  side. 

What — what  had  I  done  to  be  so  plagued 
by  this  combustible  female  ?  cried  my  heart  in 
great  bitterness.  It  is  an  ill  world  that  allows 
of  such  doings,  and  the  rank  injustice  that  had 
parcelled  out  to  the  innocent  the  brunt  of  the 
idle  doings  of  the  wicked  filled  me  with  impo- 
tent fury. 

Had  Master  Chetwynd  not  played  the  fool, 
had  Mistress  Sylvia  (I  was  ignorant  of  her 
patronymic)  not  assisted  him  with  such  ardour, 
I  should  have  been  seated  without  upon  the 
coach,  enjoying  the  fresh  air  and  peace,  in 
place  of  facing  a  tipsy  hog,  with  an  injured 
and  wordy  maid  at  my  side,  intent  on  excited 
recital  of  her  wrongs. 


"  PUNCHINELLO  "  69 

The  hysteric  clamour  at  last  proved  beyond 
bearing,  my  stultified  brain  lost  all  sense  of 
courtesy  due  to  sex,  and  I  spoke  gruffly  as  I 
would  have  spoken  to  any  hind,  praying  her  to 
be  silent. 

"  Promise  me  one  little  favour,"  she  said  for 
all  answer.  "  Just  this :  when  we  arrive  at 
London,  to  go  and  seek  my  father  and  bring 
him  to  me.  I  dare  not  seek  him,"  she  gasped, 
"  I  dare  not." 

"  Madam,"  I  returned,  clutching  at  the  skirts 
of  peace,  **  to  hear  is  to  obey." 

At  least  I  reflected  I  should  be  quit  of  her, 
and  considering  what  I  had  already  borne  by 
her  being  foisted  upon  me — I,  who  avoided 
women  as  the  plague — a  little  more  or  less 
seemed  of  minute  importance. 

Having  attained  her  end,  she  was  graciously 
pleased  to  allow  me  a  temporary  repose,  but  it 
was  of  brief  duration.  I  had  just  composed 
myself  in  the  corner,  and  was  feigning  sleep, 
when  she  started  afresh. 

"  We  will  beguile  the  hour  by  studying  what 
the  future  holds." 

Her  sharp,  decisive  tones  filled  me  with 
dismay. 

From  this  there  was  no  appeal. 


70  "PUNCHINELLO" 

"  See ! "  she  drew  a  pack  of  playing-cards 
from  her  pocket,  and  flourished  them  under 
my  nose  with  a  scintillating  smile.  "Come 
opposite  me — so.  Closer,  closer,"  she  rapped 
out  impatiently,  "so  that  our  knees  touch." 

I  was  shocked  at  her  forwardness,  but  obeyed 
her  automatically,  while  she  straightened  out 
her  wide  skirts  and  commenced  laying  out  the 
cards  in  a  wide  circle. 

"  We  will  learn  what  the  future  holds !  " 

Now  I  had  heard  of  this  fool's  pastime,  but 
had  never  seen  it  acted,  and  I  stared  stupefied 
at  her  rapt  face  as  she  leaned  over  the  horse- 
shoe she  had  made,  carefully  noting  the  mean- 
ing of  each  card  and  its  relation  to  its  neigh- 
bour. 

The  day  was  dying,  and  the  guard  had  lit  a 
lantern.  Its  light  glimmered  fitfully  on  her 
excited  face,  leaving  it  partly  in  shadow.  She 
might  have  been  a  sybil  painted  by  Rembrandt. 

"  I  lay  them  first  for  myself,"  she  panted, 
"  then  for  you." 

I  bowed  my  thanks,  striving  by  an  exagger- 
ated obeisance  to  suggest  the  contempt  with 
which  I  regarded  this  suggestion ;  but  she  was 
impervious  to  satire. 

"  King  of  clubs  and  ten  of  hearts — a  sincere 


"PUNCHINELLO"  71 

lover,"  she  muttered.  "  He  crosses  me.  Is  it 
possible  ?  But  no.  Here  is  the  seven  of 
spades,  but  in  the  past."  A  gleam  of  grati- 
fication passed  over  her  silly  face.  "  Tears  lie 
behind  me  " — she  flicked  the  five  of  diamonds 
with  her  finger — "  also  kisses.  Above  me  the 
seven  of  hearts,  knave  of  diamonds — ^jealousy. 
That  also  lies  behind.  Could  it  be  that  I  was 
over-quick?" 

She  kept  up  this  running  commentary,  appa- 
rently oblivious  of  my  existence  except  so  far  as 
I  served  to  support  her  cards. 

"  In  the  future,  king  of  hearts  and  nine  of 
hearts — happy  love  affair.     Can  it  be  ?  " 

Her  eyes  brimmed  up.  She  cut  carefully 
with  the  left  hand,  and  laid  the  cards  afresh. 

"Shall  I  get  my  wish?  Here  am  I,  the 
queen  of  clubs."  Her  voice  vibrated  with 
excitement.  "  Crossed,  the  saints  be  praised ! 
by  the  wish  card "  (methinks  the  holy  men 
would  have  been  astonished  at  their  company), 
"  the  nine  of  hearts.  Do  you  see  ? "  She 
literally  banged  me  on  the  knees  lest  I  fail  to 
note  every  detail  of  her  fooling.  "Do  you 
see  ?  Do  you  understand  ?  This  is  me." 
She  planted  her  forefinger  firmly  on  the  queen 
of  clubs — "this  is  my  wish."       She  stuck  the 


72  "PUNCHINELLO" 

wretched  card  beneath  my  very  nose,  and  I 
retreated  vainly.  "It  crosses  me  ;  I  get  my 
wish  ! " 

Anxious  to  propitiate  her,  I  mastered  my 
aversion  to  her  and  her  proceedings. 

"  My  mission  will  not  be  in  vain,"  I  smiled. 
"  Your  father  will  prove  of  kindlier  mettle  than 
you  lately  anticipated." 

How  gaily  does  improvident  youth  engage  in 
disaster !  In  a  moment  her  face  was  black  in 
the  gloom,  and  she  glared  at  me  most  furiously. 
She  was  about  to  speak,  and  I  cannot  doubt 
that  her  words  would  have  matched  her  looks, 
when,  to  my  intense  relief,  her  mood  changed, 
and  she  smiled  at  me  with  the  friendliest  air. 

"  I  had  forgotten  for  the  moment,"  she  con- 
fessed with  engaging  candour ;  "  I  am  so  rich 
in  desires." 

I  gaped  at  her  perplexed. 

"  You  absolve  me  from  my  mission  ?  "  I  said 
hurriedly,  for  indeed  I  had  no  desire  to  travel 
afield  of  the  great  city  in  search  of  an  irate 
parent. 

"  Not  at  all,"  she  answered  quickly.  "  I  pray 
you  abide  by  your  word." 

Then,  seeing  that  I  looked  somewhat  sulky, 
and   answered   only   with   a   glum   grunt,    she 


"  PUNCHINELLO  *'  73 

started  afresh  with  her  pieces  of  painted 
card. 

"  Now  for  ^^/^^r  fortune,"  says  she,  flirting  her 
curls,  and  making  very  free  with  her  eyes. 
"  Here  you  stand." 

She  poked  me  vigorously  with  her  fan,  for  I 
was  gazing  out  of  the  window  at  the  glooming 
landscape,  and  trying  to  express  the  contempt 
that  I  dared  not  voice  in  a  disgusted  back. 

"Now  here  you  are."  Her  rings  flashed 
through  the  dusk  as  she  shuffled  the  cards. 
"  We  will  count  you  king  of  spades,  with  your 
black  eyes  and  hair.  Now  we  will  see  what 
surrounds  you,  what  gifts  great  London  holds 
in  reserve." 

She  fluttered  her  cards,  and  I  maintained  a 
haughty  silence,  which  deterred  her  in  no  wise. 

"  Oh,  sakes  alive ! "  she  laughed  out,  with  a 
genuine  enjoyment  that  disturbed  the  sleeping 
toper,  and  woke  him  to  a  fleeting  knowledge  of 
passing  events,  "  if  there  is  not  a  fair  woman 
spreading  a  net  for  you  !  Now  do  not  glare  at 
me,  sir,  for,  indeed,  unpowdered,  I  am  dark,  and 
my  eyes,  as  you  may  see,  are  brown."  She 
gave  me  the  benefit  of  their  liquid  depths  in  a 
cleverly  shot  glance.  "  You  escape  from  her 
clutches,  but  not  until  she  has  reaped  a  gener- 


74  "  PUNCHINELLO  " 

ous  harvest.  'Ware,  Master — by  the  way,  I 
am  ignorant  of  your  name  ?  " 

"  Dallas,"  I  flung  at  her. 

"  Now,  Master  Dallas,  I  insist  on  your  atten- 
tion. You  see  how  the  cards  lie  " — she  forced 
me  to  attention — "  the  fair  woman  uses  you  for 
her  own  advantage — how,  I  know  not ;  but 
beware,  for  this  lies  in  the  immediate  future. 
Further,  I  see" — she  shuffled  the  cards  afresh, 
and  bade  me  cut,  which  I  did  most  unwillingly. 
At  this  point  the  gentleman  in  the  corner  flung 
a  witticism  at  us  ;  on  finding  it  ignored,  he 
turned  on  his  side  and  slumbered  afresh. 
"  Further,  I  see  a  great  change  in  family  cir- 
cumstances, a  stranger — a  woman,"  her  voice 
rose  in  an  ever-increasing  crescendo.  "  Her 
life  and  yours  intermingle — a  ring."  She  flung 
a  coquettish  glance  at  me,  "  There  is  great 
happiness — love  follows  the  ring.  See,"  she 
nudged  me  impatiently,  "how  the  red  cards 
preponderate ! " 

"Defend  me,"  I  burst  out,  "from  all  women!" 

But  she,  heedless  of  my  words,  bent  over 
her  cards  full  of  interest.  "  What  happiness  !  " 
she  cried,  "  and  what  blackness  !  The  woman 
is  gone — the  love  is  fled.  You  eat  your  bread 
in   strange    lands,  for  ever    pursuing — what?" 


"PUNCHINELLO"  75 

Her  voice  rose,  and  fell  vibrant  with  feeling. 
"  There  is  enmity  —  these  spades  point  to 
trouble.  Do  you  indulge  in  enemies,  Master 
Dallas  ?  "  she  asked  flippantly.  "  Personally  I 
regard  them  as  luxuries — friends  are  a  necessity. 
When  I  can  afford  it,  I  promise  myself  the 
indulgence  of  one  or  two  enemies."  Mistress 
Sylvia's  eyes  gleamed  with  a  light  that  pro- 
mised ill  for  the  victims  of  her  choice.  "  I 
cannot  read  further."  She  looked  at  me  with 
new  interest  in  her  face ;  it  was  purged  of  the 
old  frivolity,  and  her  wide  eyes  were  full  of 
a  mystic  light.  "  I  see  as  in  a  glass  darkly," 
she  whispered.  "  You  jeer  at  me  ;  but  if,  indeed, 
is  given  to  you  such  a  love  as  Fortune  traces 
by  the  aid  of  these  letters  " — the  cards  slipped 
idly  through  her  fingers — "  be  careful  of  it," 
she  prayed.  "  Such  love,  when  lost,  is  lost 
to  all  eternity." 

(Nan,  my  Nan.  I  mocked  her  in  my  heart, 
though  I  spoke  no  word.) 

"  Myself,"  she  whispered  to  herself,  while  I 
listened  half-credulous,  half-scornful,  "  I  feel  the 
shadow  of  a  great  tragedy." 

"  My  tragedy  is  told."  I  shrugged  my  mal- 
formed shoulders.  "  No  woman  shall  ever  have 
it  in  her  power  to  make  or  mar  my  fortunes." 


76  ♦*  PUNCHINELLO** 

And  I  gazed  at  her  defiantly,  for  I  knew  she 
had  exerted  all  her  artifices  to  subdue  me. 

"  She  will  come  into  your  life,  and  for  a 
time  your  days  will  be  flooded  with  sunshine — 
such  gladness  as  you  have  never  dreamed 
will  be  yours.  And  then — and  then  the  shadows 
thicken.  In  truth,  Master  Dallas,  I  can  see  no 
further,"  she  broke  off. 

Indeed,  could  she  have  gone  further  with  her 
prophesyings,  there  had  been  no  time  to  hear 
them,  for  now  the  coach  rattled  into  the  court- 
yard of  The  Bear,  which  lies  just  within  the 
shadow  of  Holborn,  and  we  were  at  our  journey's 
end.  Mistress  Sylvia  promptly  dropped  her 
weird  airs,  and  alighting  briskly  bade  me 
follow  her  into  the  inn.  Arrived,  she  plucked 
me  by  the  sleeve,  and  drew  me  apart  from  the 
crowd  of  be-wigged  and  be-ruffled  beaux  who 
were  thronging  the  entrance  hall.  "  See,"  she 
whispered  emphatically,  "  here  is  his  address. 
Fetch  him  for  the  love  of  Heaven !  Tell 
him  I  pray  his  forgiveness — that  a  penitent 
daughter  awaits  him.  Make  no  error,  but  look 
carefully.  Sir  William  Nash,  of  12,  Charlotte 
Street  ;  you  cannot  mistake.  Now,  hurry, 
hurry,"  and  she  almost  pushed  me  from  her. 

"  Madam,"   I  remonstrated,  "  I  cannot  leave 


"  PUNCHINELLO '»  77 

you  here."  Already  people  were  staring  at  her, 
and  anxious  though  I  was  to  be  quit  of  her 
and  her  affairs,  it  seemed  to  me  impossible  to 
leave  her  thus  ;  but  she  ordered  me  away,  as 
though  I  were  her  valet,  and  I — my  solicitude 
turned  to  indifference  by  her  rudeness — sped 
on  her  errand,  thanking  Heaven  as  I  went 
that  my  message  was  not  to  a  female.  As 
I  cut  my  way  through  the  people  thronging 
the  steps,  a  man's  back  struck  me  with  a 
curious  familiarity  (I  have  always  held  that  a 
back  more  thoroughly  individualises  a  per- 
sonality than  a  face).  The  straight  shoulders, 
that  alert,  well-poised  head,  where  had  I  seen 
them  before  ?  Somewhere,  and  lately,  of  so 
much  I  was  certain.  No  doubt,  had  I  been 
less  fretted,  my  indeterminate  recognition  had 
reached  clear  knowledge ;  but  as  it  was  I 
hurried  on  my  way,  dismissing  all  reflection 
but  how  best  to  accomplish  my  ungraceful  task. 
Unchivalric  as  I  was  regarding  superficial  at- 
tendance on  the  sex,  a  woman's  tears  and  a 
woman's  need,  resist  as  I  might,  invariably 
touched  me. 

Knowing  my  powers  of  non-resistance,  I 
swore  a  great  oath  as  I  wended  my  way  to 
Charlotte  Street — no  more  petticoats  for  me ! 


78  "PUNCHINELLO" 

My  oath  used  a  passing  breath ;  for  the  rest 
it  has  availed  me  nothing.  There  was  Marjory 
within  the  year,  a  commonplace  maid  enough 
seen  by  the  light  of  later  knowledge.     There 

was Shall   I   put  you  in  such  company 

my  life?     My  heart  revolts  at  the  thought. 

Far  better  return  to  Mistress  Sylvia,  and  my 
desperate  chase  through  London  in  search  of 
her  parent,  my  timepiece  at  intervals  assuring 
me  of  the  flying  hours.  At  length  I  sighted 
the  street,  and  arriving  at  the  house  clattered 
the  knocker  with  an  extreme  fervour  born  of  the 
desire  common  to  all  men  to  know  the  worst. 
Before  the  quarter  had  made  its  mark  on  my 
timepiece  (I  noted  its  course  with  feverish  in- 
terest), the  obdurate  parent,  heralded  by  a 
pleasing  Abigail,  was  before  me. 

"  I  bring  you  news  of  your  daughter."  I 
flung  the  intelligence  at  his  head,  and  he 
straightway  anticipated  the  news. 

"  He  has  deserted  her,"  he  tossed  at  me. 

"  Pardon  me,"  I  returned  with  a  not  unpar- 
donable acerbity,  "she  has  deserted  him;  she 
craves " — I  hurried  on  in  an  ever-increasing 
feverishness — "  your  pardon — her  rehabilitation 
in  your  affections." 

Now   with   great   eagerness  he  took  me  by 


"PUNCHINELLO"  79 

the  arm,  and,  interrupting  me  at  every  other 
word  with  questions,  he  drew  the  story  of  what 
had  passed  from  me.  Grateful  though  he  pro- 
fessed himself,  I  could  see  that  he  felt  I  was 
amply  rewarded  for  my  trouble  in  acting 
as  his  daughter's  emissary,  and  by  the  know- 
ledge of  having  been  of  service  to  her.  Vainly 
I  searched  for  symptom  of  the  stern  parent 
so  graphically  depicted  by  Mistress  Sylvia  ;  I 
saw  only  an  old  man,  fond  and  foolish  as  any 
Lear,  with  tremulous  hands,  and  eyes  that 
filled  with  every  allusion  to  his  beloved  child. 

"  She  was  always  wild,"  he  said  fondly.  "  A 
maid  so  lovely  is  beset  with  temptation.  Master 
Chetwynd  has  a  winning  tongue,  yet  how  could 
I  doubt  that  she  would  return  to  her  old 
father  ?  " 

And  so  he  maundered  while  we  traversed 
London  at  such  speed  as  a  chaise  could  take 
us.  He  fumed  and  fretted,  eternally  urging 
the  driver  to  renewed  effort,  as  if  the  tiresome 
female  I  had  left  at  the  inn  embodied  the 
Mecca  of  his  dreams. 

We  arrived  1  Gladly  would  I  leave  the  fol- 
lowing lines  blank,  for  young  or  old,  simpleton 
or  wiseacre,  who  cares  to  write  himself  a  sheep  ? 
But  this  is  the  story  of  Punchinello,  known  only 


8o  *' PUNCHINELLO" 

to  himself,  and  embracing  his  years  between 
seven  and  twenty-three — even  the  astute  bio- 
grapher is  ignorant  of  this  foolishness,  so  let 
it  pass.  I  had  rather  not  be  as  dull  as  that 
erudite  gentleman,  so  quench  a  desire  to  talk 
alternately  of  my  music  and  my  love,  and 
relate  my  tale  as  it  occurred. 

Who  will  may  scoff!  We  arrived,  my  rev- 
erend Signor  and  I — he  bubbling  over  with 
fatherly  affection,  I  conscious  of  a  certain  trepid- 
ation regarding  the  course  of  events.  I  could 
not  forget  the  glare  of  anger  with  which 
Mistress  Sylvia  had  received  my  reading  of 
her  wish.  I  certainly  brought  its  lawful  ful- 
filment ;  but  who  shall  satisfy  a  mind  so  rich 
in  desires  that  while  the  breath  of  the  one  is 
in  the  air  another  is  agape  for  satisfaction  ? 
In  my  mind  I  saw  the  calf  carefully  roasting 
in  Charlotte  Street,  already  the  ring  was  fitted 
on  the  prodigal's  finger. 

We  passed  together,  he  and  I,  through  the 
knots  of  people  that  filled  the  entrance  to  the 
inn  where  I  had  left  his  penitent  offspring. 
An  hour  or  so  had  passed,  and  more  than  one 
coach  had  deposited  its  freight  and  taken  up 
fresh  passengers  since  my  departure.  There 
were  new  faces  in  the  tap-room,  and  the  apart- 


"  PUNCHINELLO  "  8i 

ment  in  which  Mistress  Sylvia  had  promised 
to  await  me  was  filled  by  a  country  family, 
all  agog  with  excitement  at  the  thought  of 
having  entered  the  precincts  of  magic  London. 
They  were  flattening  their  noses  on  the  window- 
panes  when  I  entered. 

"  Mistress  Sylvia,"  I  began  gaily,  and  promptly 
started,  greenhorn  that  I  was,  at  being  greeted 
with  a  jingle  of  giggles  that  seemed  to  emanate 
from  every  corner  of  the  room.  I  retired, 
quickly  followed  by  the  anxious  father,  who 
crooned  low  terms  of  endearment  beneath  his 
breath,  all  of  which  I  have  no  doubt  were  in- 
tended for  the  absent  Sylvia.  Then,  scenting 
evil,  I  shook  him  off,  and  beseeching  speech 
with  the  landlord  asked  him  if  he  had  noted 
aught  of  Mistress  Sylvia  and  her  movements. 
He  remembered  her  well  enough  (she  was  of 
the  type  that  insists  on  recognition  in  any 
company,  however  motley),  and  received  my 
inquiries  with  a  sapient  twinkle  in  his  eye. 
"  Mistress  Sylvia  Nash  departed  for  Gurness 
by  the  last  coach,"  said  he,  obsequiously  rub- 
bing his  hands  the  while.  Blankly  staring 
before  me,  I  yet  realised  that  he  waited  care- 
fully on  my  countenance,  striving  to  learn  how 
far  he  dared,  by  a  venturesome  wink,  express 


82  "  PUNCHINELLO  " 

his  understanding  of  the  complex  position. 
My  determination  that  he  should  not  enjoy 
the  moment  stung  me  to  the  exercise  of  his- 
trionic ability  hitherto  undreamed  of. 

"  Ah,"  I  said,  turning  on  my  heel.  "  No 
doubt  she  has  received  intelligence  that  neces- 
sitated her  departing  before  my  return.  She 
expected  it,  and  mentioned  the  possibility 
before  I  left  her,  but" — (here  I  feigned  an 
anxious  air — who  knew  better  than  I  Mistress 
Sylvia's  genius  for  self-preservation  ?) — "  it  is 
hardly  the  place  or  the  hour  for  a  gentle- 
woman to  travel  unattended.  I  would,"  I 
sighed — God  forgive  me ! — "  I  had  returned  in 
time." 

"She  was  not  unattended,"  he  said  respect- 
fully; "be  not  troubled  on  this  count.    She " 

but  I  departed  hurriedly,  suddenly  cognizant  of 
the  elusive  personality  that  had  struck  me  with 
a  curious  fugitive  resemblance  in  the  courtyard 
just  after  I  had  left  Mistress  Sylvia.  Now  I 
remembered  where  I  had  before  seen  the  care- 
less carriage  of  the  head,  the  straight,  well-built 
shoulders — they  had  flung  defiance  at  us  as  the 
owner  had  rushed  out  of  the  tap-room.  Master 
Hugh  Chetwynd  had  no  doubt  vowed  venge- 
ance  on    the   veiled    smiles    of  the    company. 


"  PUNCHINELLO  "  83 

Could  he  but  have  known  it,  one  individual 
paid  the  debt  in  full. 

The  lusty  laugh  of  the  landlord,  as  I  hurried 
away,  jangled  in  my  ears.  My  powers  of  en- 
durance snapped  short,  and  left  me  shorn  of 
all  artificial  courtesies.  I  marched  straight  to 
where  Sir  William  waited  for  his  daughter,  his 
expectant  eyes  fastened  on  the  door,  the  un- 
spoken word  of  forgiveness  trembling  on  his 
lips.  Now  Heaven  knows  I  pitied  him  from 
my  heart  in  having  begot  such  a  jade  as  Mis- 
tress Sylvia,  and  went  to  him  in  all  tenderness 
of  spirit,  seeking,  as  I  walked,  how  easiest  to 
break  him  the  uncomfortable  news.  I  mind 
that  in  the  supreme  moment  my  diplomacy 
deserted  me,  and  that  sharply  cutting  short  his 
passionate  cry  of  Sylvia^  I  told  him  the  truth 
in  all  its  ugly  baldness.  When  I  had  done  he 
said  no  word  but  "  Sylvia,  Sylvia,"  crying  her 
name  with  trembling  mouth  as  a  hurt  child,  and 
then  launched  into  a  passionate  diatribe  against 
Master  Hugh  Chetwynd,  who  had  again  lured 
her  from  the  paths  of  righteousness. 

"  She  will  marry  him,"  I  blurted,  in  haste  to 
console,  regretful  as  I  spoke  that  I  had  care- 
lessly posed  my  pronouns.  "  She  satisfies  a 
romantic     craving  —  you     will     dandle    your 


84  "  PUNCHINELLO  " 

grand-children  on  your  knee  and  thank  this 
hour." 

"  I  would  she  had  told  me,"  he  sobbed  for  all 
answer.  "  To  think  of  her  at  the  mercy  of  that 
rake !  He  will  ill-use  her  ;  had  he  not  already 
done  so,  why  should  she  have  desired  to 
return?  He  has  followed  her,  or  rather  been 
beforehand  with  her,  and  again  seduced  her 
with  fair  words."    He  paused,  gasping  for  breath. 

Now  I  could  not  bear  to  see  so  much  fine 
feeling  and  affection  wasted  on  the  soulless 
woman,  and  seized  the  opportunity  to  disillu- 
sion him  as  to  the  veritable  worth  of  the 
baggage  he  was  bewailing.  Disillusionment  is 
ever  an  ungrateful  process,  and  I  noticed,  as  I 
proceeded,  that  my  listener  regarded  me  with 
growing  anger.  "  What  mean  you,  sir  ?  "  he 
said,  when  I  had  detailed  my  version  of  Mis- 
tress Sylvia's  escapade. 

"  I  mean,"  I   stammered,  "  I  mean "      I 

had  no  doubt  as  to  my  meaning,  but  how  most 
happily  to  express  it  passed  my  comprehension. 
"  I  mean,"  I  said,  again  flurried  into  idiocy. 

"  Sir,"  said  he,  with  an  awful  calmness,  "  I 
await  your  pleasure." 

The  truth  leapt  to  my  lips  for  all  my  gallant 
endeavour   to   lie  adequately.      "Sir,"   I  stam- 


"PUNCHINELLO"  85 

mered,  "  accept  my  best  congratulations.  Give 
to  Master  Chetwynd — an  you  ever  see  him — 
my  heartfelt  sympathy."  God  knows  I  had 
not  flouted  him  for  the  world,  but  I  had  been 
over-tried,  and  my  patience  was  frayed  to  rags. 

He  stared  at  me  for  a  moment  petrified,  and, 
as  he  stared,  I  felt  a  sickly  smile  skulk  over  my 
face  in  endeavour  at  propitiation.  That  was 
one  moment,  the  next  I  stood  without  the  door 
reflecting  on  the  ease  with  which  a  summary 
ejection  had  been  performed  and  the  foolishness 
of  venturing  within  a  mile  of  a  woman. 

But  for  all  the  indignity  to  which  I  had  been 
subjected,  as  I  left  the  inn,  glad  to  have  at  last 
shaken  myself  free  of  Mistress  Sylvia  and  her 
business,  I  did  not  forget  to  waft  a  prayer 
heavenwards  for  Master  Chetwynd. 

Anxious  as  I  was  to  forget  her  and  her 
follies,  as  I  wended  my  way  to  the  house  where 
I  was  to  lodge  during  my  stay  in  Town,  her 
prophecy  haunted  me.  "  Be  careful.  Master 
Dallas,  for  such  love,  when  lost,  is  lost  to  all 
eternity." 

I  scorned  her  words,  yet  for  a  time  they 
would  not  be  ignored.  Now  in  this  sad  time 
of  waiting  they  are  ever  with  me,  insistent  with 
their  presage  of  the  unforgotten  hours ;  still  J 


86  "PUNCHINELLO'^ 

know,  for  all  her  mysterious  foreshadowing  of 
events  yet  unborn,  that  she  was  not  infallible, 
that  a  love  once  lost,  however  great,  shall  live 
again.  Why  else  on  sunny  days,  my  sweetheart 
of  long  ago,  dancing  beneath  the  spreading 
boughs,  flinging  kisses  in  remembrance? 

Mad  ?  No,  not  mad  !  But  the  line  is  over- 
delicately  drawn,  and  to  remember  and  re- 
gret, to  linger  and  repent  overmuch,  is  foolish 
work.  Better  to  get  on  with  my  story  and  the 
telling  of  the  time  that  my  biographer  has  so 
successfully  ignored,  those  sixteen  years  in 
which  all  the  life  I  have  lived  lies  crushed  in 
the  dust,  yet  blossoming  with  fairer  memories 
than  all  the  gorgeous  years. 

You  sweated  hard  in  the  performance  of 
your  duty,  my  biographer.  You  were  greedy 
of  detail  and  quick-set  with  hunger  of  the  im- 
material. Much  you  wrote  and  right  well,  but 
not  my  life — my  little  life  counted  in  the  brief 
spell  of  sixteen  summers. 


THOSE  studious  days  of  mine  were 
flavoured  with  a  sweetness  that  my 
more  prosperous  times  have  lacked.  For 
whole  days  we  never  saw  our  master,  and 
worked  or  lounged  as  fitted  our  humour.  For 
myself  I  slaved,  struggling  with  counterpoint 
and  harmony,  endeavouring  to  understand  the 
old  masters  and  in  some  measure  to  express 
mine  own  melodies.  We  had  a  gay  time 
enough  among  ourselves.  I  lived  in  the  same 
house  as  Simon  Maers,  a  Dutchman  by  ex- 
traction, who  was  for  ever  writing  oratorios  of, 
I  must  admit,  a  most  shocking  quality.  He 
had  no  genius  for  composition,  being  intended 
by  nature  for  an  executant,  largely  gifted  in 
perception,  with  an  exquisite  ear,  and  of  great 
physical  address,  with  pliant  hands  and  long 
fingers.  Violinist  was  indeed  inscribed  upon 
him,  but  he  burned  to  compose,  and  would 
spend  long  hours  in  vain  travail  to  be  at  last 
rewarded  with  a  monstrosity.      Sometimes  he 


87 


88  "PUNCHINELLO" 

would  forget  his  ambitions  and  allow  himself 
to  take  the  part  assigned  to  him  by  God 
Almighty,  choosing  some  thought  of  Tartini 
and  throwing  it  forth  to  men  in  all  its  gracious- 
ness,  and  almost  before  the  sweetness  had  left 
the  air  rending  it  with  lamentations  that  he 
could  never  hope  to  match  so  fair  a  creation, 
oblivious  to  the  fact  that  without  such  middle- 
men (if  I  may  be  allowed  so  vulgar  a  simile) 
as  he,  creative  genius  and  the  world  at  large 
had  stood  parted  to  all  eternity  by  an  impass- 
able chasm. 

I  mind  him  one  evening,  when  the  day's 
work  was  over,  and  we  were  both  too  out- 
wearied  to  seek  amusement  without,  how  he 
seized  his  violin  and  played  a  little  romance  of 
his  own  composing.  I  shivered  as  I  heard  him, 
for  it  was  as  if  poor  puerilities  were  clothed  in 
fair  form  and  he  endeavoured  to  cover  de- 
formity by  fair  adorning.  It  came  to  an  end  at 
last,  and  he  asked  me  what  I  thought ;  and  as  I 
hesitated,  fearing  to  say  how  I  loved  the  manner 
and  abhorred  the  matter,  he  dropped  his  head 
upon  the  table  for  a  moment  and  then  lifted 
wet  eyes  reviling  the  gift  of  exquisite  expres- 
sion with  which  the  good  God  had  blessed  him. 

"  1  have  it.     I  know.     I  know  it  all."    With  a 


"PUNCHINELLO"  89 

sudden  change  of  mood  he  turned  and  laughed. 
"  Look  at  me,"  he  cried  ;  "  I  am  interesting  from 
the  psychological  point  of  view.  I  am  pregnant 
with  unborn  symphonies ;  my  unsung  songs 
would  fill  many  a  programme ;  but  I  cannot 
write,  I  cannot.  Directly  I  strive  to  give  my 
thoughts  expression,  they  evade  me  and  vanish 
into  thin  air.  I  suggest  paint,  ink,  and  pencil. 
I  am  a  medium,  Mr.  Anthony,  for  the  telling  of 
other  men's  tales.  It  is  not  amusing."  Poor 
lad,  it  was  the  old  struggle — the  passion  for 
creation  and  no  creative  power,  coupled  with  a 
delicacy  and  facility  of  perception  that  made 
him  an  exquisite  executant.  He  renewed  my 
passion  for  the  violin,  and  I  learnt  to  play  with 
ease,  taking  to  all  things  musical  with  the 
utmost  naturalness. 

Now  up  to  this  date  I  had  known,  exclusive 
of  Mistress  Sylvia,  nothing  of  the  charms  of 
femininity,  regarding  woman  indeed  as  a  super- 
fluous sex,  of  excellent  use  no  doubt  for  persons 
who  desired  to  be  born,  but  lacking  in  value 
except  from  an  utilitarian  point  of  view.  My 
mother,  indeed — but  then  she  was  my  mother  ! 
As  a  rule  I  regarded  the  sex  disinterestedly, 
occasionally  according  a  supercilious  tribute  to 
their  attractions   from   my  superior  masculine 


90  "PUNCHINELLO" 

vantage.  Sweet  maids  had  rarely  smiled  upon 
me  :  I  lacking  physical  charms  and  adding  to 
the  boyish  clownishness  common  to  all  lads  of 
my  age  a  morose  manner  grafted  upon  an 
original  awkwardness  by  the  realisation  of  my 
deficiencies. 

But  Simon  was  of  another  way  of  thinking. 
I  was  for  ever  hearing  of  ladies  whose  charms 
I  fancied  to  be  of  an  evanescent  nature,  so 
quickly  did  these  stars  succeed  each  other. 
But  there  was  one  fixed  planet  in  his  gay  con- 
stellation, one  Marjory  Davenant,  which  never 
waned.  The  charms  of  this  lady  were  eter- 
nally sounded  in  my  ears.  Never  before  had 
one  woman  so  absolutely  exemplified  the  de- 
lights of  femininity.  Her  beauty  of  feature  was 
only  second  to  her  beauty  of  soul ;  she  was 
gay,  sympathetic,  pretty  as  a  flower  ;  her  voice 
was  musical — he  laid  great  stress  on  its  delicacy 
of  timbre,  as  befitted  one  whose  trade  was 
sweet  sound.  Mistress  Marjory  was,  I  heard, 
a  damsel  of  fair  means,  being  the  daughter  of 
a  physician  who  lived  in  a  comfortable  solid 
mansion  some  way  out  of  town,  at  Calingham, 
on  the  river.  Here  Simon  would  often  betake 
himself  for  his  brief  interlude  of  holiday.  He 
often  invited  me  to  accompany  him  on  these 


"PUNCHINELLO'^  91 

expeditions,  and  I  as  eternally  refused  him, 
being  shy  of  women,  as  I  have  said.  But  one 
Sunday  I  succumbed  to  his  entreaties  and  went 
with  him.  I  regard  this  visit  as  a  turning-point 
in  my  life,  for  it  was  the  means  of  transforming 
me  from  a  raw  boy  into  a  man.  Woman,  what- 
ever her  faults,  is  an  excellent  educator  at  this 
period  of  existence. 

When  I  was  first  introduced  to  Mistress 
Marjory,  I  suffered  a  very  anguish  of  disap- 
pointment. At  this  time,  although  mortally 
afraid  of  women,  I  loved  looking  at  them, 
delighting  in  the  graceful  lines  and  soft  colours, 
the  pretty  smiles  and  dainty  ways  that  go  to 
the  making  of  a  fair  feminine  creation.  Mis- 
tress Marjory  had,  however,  little  to  offer  from 
an  aesthetic  point  of  view.  In  truth  she  startled 
me  when  I  first  saw  her. 

She  was  broidering  at  a  work  frame  when 
we  entered  the  reception  room,  and  jumped  up 
from  it  suddenly.  "Simon,"  she  said  quickly, 
"  Simon ! "  and  looked  at  him  with  a  great 
transfiguration,  metamorphosing  her  from  a 
plain  woman  to  a  beautiful  one — so  great  a 
power  is  love — and  then  shot  a  curious  glance 
at  me  out  of  her  grey  eyes,  as  she  bade  me 
welcome. 


92  "PUNCHINELLO" 

She  was  a  diminutive  woman,  with  flaxen  hair 
and  insignificant  features,  no  longer  in  the 
first  freshness  of  youth,  yet  with  something 
about  her  that  compelled  attention.  God  had, 
indeed,  balanced  her  chary  charms  with  a 
tender  voice  and  a  luminous  smile,  yet  looking 
at  her  it  was  hard  to  say  where  the  arresting 
charm  that  individualised  her  personality  lay. 

At  first  I  was,  as  I  have  written,  disappointed, 
but  before  the  day  had  died  I  envied  Simon, 
who,  to  my  mind,  accepted  the  gift  of  the  gods 
with  an  indifference  that  bordered  on  irreverence. 
He  loved  her  no  doubt,  and  she  loved  him,  as 
he  explained  with  a  fatuous  chuckle,  and  he 
was  fortunate.  But,  to  my  mind,  he  regarded 
his  future  as  too  assured  ;  it  seemed  to  me  a 
tremor  or  so  would  have  been  graceful. 

From  the  first,  silly  fool  that  I  was,  she 
twisted  me  round  her  finger — I,  who  had  always 
hated  women,  or  so  feigned  to  myself,  fighting 
ever  to  believe  this  lie,  now  fell  in  love,  as  I 
called  it,  with  a  passion  that  bade  fair  to  set 
my  whole  life  out  of  gear.  I  knew  it  was  hope- 
less, or,  to  be  accurate,  believed  it  to  be  so  at 
the  commencement  of  our  acquaintance.  She 
was  a  clever  woman,  so  clever  that  she  disguised 
the  slightest  symptom  of  learning,  showing  her 


"PUNCHINELLO"  93 

ability  only  in  her  quick  appreciation  of  the 
wit  of  others,  and  in  a  never- failing  faculty  to 
fill  any  awkward  hiatus  that  should  arise.  She 
was  so  clever  that,  desiring  to  please  me,  I 
being  a  friend  of  the  adored  Simon,  she  never 
for  all  her  kind  words  or  looks  made  the  mis- 
take of  poisoning  the  sweetness  by  a  note  of 
pity.  She  did  me  an  awful  mischief,  but  I 
uncover  my  head  to  her  aptitude  and  forgive 
her ;  it  was  all  due  to  that  Simon. 

I  do  not  think,  to  be  just,  that  she  had  any 
thought  of  utilising  me  in  the  first  stage  of  our 
acquaintance ;  she  fell  a  victim  to  expediency. 
To  put  it  brief,  she  encouraged  my  nascent 
adoration  until  I  pitied  Simon  in  my  vanity. 
From  going  to  visit  her  with  him  and  expecting 
little  of  her  society — Simon,  having  an  egoistic 
way  of  taking  her  out  for  a  stroll,  leaving  me 
to  converse  with  her  father — I  soon  paid  her 
visits  on  my  own  account  at  her  express  in- 
vitation, and  we  would  spend  delightful  days 
together.  She  was  adorably  companionable, 
and  I  know  no  better  place  to  work  a  young 
man's  undoing  than  summer  hours  by  the 
Thames. 

At  this  time  both  Simon  and  I  were  greatly 
exercised  in  our  minds  owing  to  a  scholarship 


94  "PUNCHINELLO" 

for  composition  that  was  being  offered  in 
London.  He  had,  I  knew,  no  chance  of  it,  but 
he  struggled  in  impotent  throes  to  achieve  suc- 
cess, impelled  not  only  by  his  own  ambition  but 
by  a  sharp  desire  to  excel  in  the  eyes  of  his 
beloved.  I  knew  nothing  of  what  he  was  doing, 
all  of  us  keeping  our  endeavour  secret  from  each 
other,  but  I  guessed  from  his  fretted  air  and 
the  bitterness  of  his  moods  that,  as  ever, 
he  was  hammering  at  a  closed  door.  Marjory 
knew  of  this  scholarship.  She  suffered,  poor 
maid,  from  Simon's  despairs  on  the  one  hand 
and  from  my  premature  jubilation  on  the  other, 
and  bore  with  us  with  patience,  wishing  us 
both  success  with  the  prettiest  kindness.  Now 
we  could  not  both  succeed,  and  I  knew  where 
her  wishes  lay,  so  I  have  no  excuse  for  my  folly 
excepting  my  youth  and  the  preference  she  had 
of  late  so  violently  accorded  me.  But,  on 
my  life,  at  this  time  I  believed  she  wished  me 
first,  and  I  worked  and  strove,  fired  with  love 
as  well  as  with  ambition. 

"  Whistle  me  one  of  your  motifs,  Anthony," 
she  said  to  me  one  hot  afternoon  as  we  drifted 
down  the  river  ;  I  pretending  to  scull,  but  in 
truth  lost  in  contemplation  of  her  who  sat 
before  me,  looking  in  her  white  lacy  draperies 


"PUNCHINELLO"  95 

a  very  poem  of  daintiness.  I  had  been  talking 
to  her  for  the  last  hour  of  my  hopes  and  am- 
bitions, boring  her,  as  I  understood  later,  most 
mercilessly,  although  at  the  time  my  gladness 
was  unchequered.  We  had  hardly  mentioned 
Simon,  she  speaking  of  his  gifts  of  composition 
slightingly,  and  I  answering  her  in  acquiescence. 

My  hopes  were  burning  very  high  that  day  ;  it 
seemed  to  me  a  decade  in  place  of  a  few  short 
weeks  since  I  had  thought  myself  debarred  from 
the  felicity  enjoyed  by  others.  I  was  undeniably 
deformed,  but  there  are  other  gifts  than  the 
physical,  and  I  was  beginning  to  understand 
my  worth.  I  was  cleverer  far  than  Maers,  and 
would  go  where  he  could  never  hope  to  reach. 
I  was  inflated  at  this  time  with  my  coming 
honours,  and  mazed  with  vanity.  She  appar- 
ently held  my  deformity  of  minor  moment, 
accepting  my  homage  as  kindly  as  though  it 
emanated  from  one  of  Fortune's  favourites.  My 
hopes  and  dreams  were  gay  enough  that  after- 
noon. What  if  after  all  I  were  unnaturally  mor- 
bid ?  Alas,  poor  Punchinello  !  This  was  my 
mood  as  we  drifted  down  the  river. 

"  You  are  secure,  you  think,  of  this  prize  ?  " 
she  asked,  while  I  reflected  as  to  which  melody 
I  should  select  from  out  my  cantata. 


96  "PUNCHINELLO" 

"  I  fear  not  Simon,"  I  laughed  in  my  conceit. 
Her  eyes  clouded  and  the  pink  in  her  face 
deepened,  but  she  answered  my  mirth.  "  There 
is  Max  Verlene,"  I  added.  In  my  mind  I  held 
Verlene.  with  the  exception  of  myself,  the 
cleverest  of  us,  and  kindly  vouchsafed  him  a 
recognition  in  my  optimistic  hour.  "  But  I 
have  small  doubt  as  to  the  winner,"  I  added 
conceitedly. 

She  looked  at  me  again  out  of  her  eyes  that 
were  clear  and  changing  as  the  waters,  and 
asked  me  once  more  to  let  her  hear  some  of  my 
melodies.  I  began  to  whistle  a  song  in  the 
third  act,  which  I  held  to  be  the  gem  of  my 
writing,  and  Marjory  listened  eagerly.  She 
was  a  musician  herself  of  no  mean  order,  for  a 
woman,  and  understood  the  difference  between 
good  and  evil. 

I  paid  a  fair  price  later  for  my  happiness,  but 
I  had  my  hour,  which  is  always  something,  and 
I  would  not  have  my  memory  ravished  of  it  for 
a  ransom.  It  was  the  gayest  afternoon  ;  a  light 
wind  stirred  the  river  and  bent  the  reeds  on  the 
banks,  making  strange  music  in  them,  till  it 
seemed  as  if  Pan  might  be  lying  concealed 
therein.  There  were  times  when  the  breeze 
parted  theqi  bravely,  and  I  could  have  sworn  to 


"PUNCHINELLO"  97 

a  strange  shape  lying  half  hidden  and  piping 
gaily.  The  guelder  trees  were  white  with' 
flower  ;  the  flush  of  the  dog-rose  warmed  the 
tangled  briars  lying  over  their  reflected  faces. 
I  dally,  but  it  warms  the  chill  blood  that  runs  so 
lingeringly  in  my  veins  to  remember  that  day 
again.  The  whisper  of  the  willows  and  the 
great  lilies  floating  on  the  breast  of  the  river  ; 
far  away  the  fields  of  young  wheat  tossing,  all 
green  and  gold ;  the  uplands,  over  which  the 
black  belts  of  the  woods  lay  in  gloomy  masses 
to  where  the  horizon  cut  a  clean  line  and  the 
skies  trembled  to  earth,  and  over  it  all  glimmer- 
ing the  blessed  sunshine,  lying  like  a  gilded 
veil.  It  was  a  dangerous  environment,  and  I 
was  never  over-wise.  So  I  looked  at  Marjory, 
half  intoxicated  with  the  beauty  round  me,  and 
lost  such  wit  as  I  possessed.  I  whistled  my 
melody — all  my  melodies.  I  explained  to  her 
the  scheme  of  my  cantata.  I  showed  her  my 
particular  gem,  hurriedly  noting  it  on  paper, 
which  she  thrust  into  the  bosom  of  her  gown, 
saying  she  would  like  to  try  it  on  her  harpsi- 
chord. All  the  things  I  had  so  long  and 
jealously  concealed  from  others  I  gave  Marjory 
in  that  hour,  and  made  love  to  her  besides ; 
all  pf  which  madness  I  ascribe  to  the  sights  and 

G 


98  "PUNCHINELLO" 

sounds  of  that  midsummer  day,  the  phantasies 
by  which  nature  so  often  aids  a  woman's  art 
to  further  a  man's  undoing.  She  was  very  kind 
to  me  and  in  no  wise  repelled  my  advances, 
although  betraying  an  inconvenient  anxiety  to 
converse  on  music.  Commonly,  I  had  furthered 
the  desire,  but  on  this  halcyon  day  I  desired 
to  talk  of  love.  I  was  a  novice  in  the  graceful 
art  of  phrase-making,  and  I  blundered  forth 
my  adoration  with  a  lamentable  disregard  of 
sequence.  I  loved  her  .  .  .  loved  her  so  .  .  . 
that  was  the  burden  of  my  song  so  far  as 
memory  serves ;  and,  unbelievable  as  it  seems 
at  this  far  date,  it  sounded  quite  a  fresh  and 
original  declaration.  To  be  so  satisfied  by 
the  mere  gazing  at  a  woman  that  one  was  con- 
tent to  sit  and  drink  in  the  sight  of  her,  finding 
fresh  beauty  in  every  scanned  line,  to  hear  new 
music  in  her  voice  at  every  parting  of  her  lips, 
to  know  rest  in  her  presence  and  fret  at  her 
going,  was  all  new  to  me,  never  having  enjoyed 
the  ghost  of  a  romance,  and  I  felt  that  some  of 
my  passion  must  necessarily  infect  her.  She  was 
very,  very  gracious  to  me,  I  mind.  Her  repul- 
sions of  my  suit  were  so  kind  that  in  my  hot 
haste  I  could  have  termed  them  encourage- 
ments.    She  bade  me  come  and  see  her  again 


"PUNCHINELLO"  99 

and  to  bring  with  me  my  music,  and  I  accepted 
gladly,  without  thought  of  treason  to  Simon. 
Indeed,  I  was  irresponsible  at  that  time,  suffer- 
ing violently  from  the  innocuous  malady  which 
the  cynics  term  calf-love.  I  admit  I  played  no 
pretty  part,  but  my  punishment  matched  the 
crime.  Here  followeth  the  tale  of  my  undoing, 
which  can  be  told  in  some  half-dozen  phrases. 

I  had  submitted  my  cantata  in  order  with 
the  others,  and  awaited  with  anxiety  the  result 
of  the  competition,  which  was  given  in  due 
course.  For  all  my  vain-glorious  talk  I  had 
some  doubts  of  Verlene  ;  he  was  diabolically 
clever,  but  was  not,  I  genuinely  believed,  so 
dowered  by  God  as  I.  Still  he  had  claims 
enough  to  power  to  give  me  a  wakeful  night  or 
so.  For  the  rest  I  had  no  fear.  Imagine  then 
my  astonishment  when  I  learned  that  Simon 
Maers  headed  the  list,  and  that  Verlene  was 
second,  and  that  my  name  was  not  mentioned. 
I  received,  indeed,  a  private  note,  asking  me  to 
call  at  the  residence  of  Dr.  Grenfell,  who  was 
one  of  those  concerned  in  the  awarding  of  this 
scholarship.  My  brain  was  in  such  a  whirl  of 
fury  and  frenzy  that  even  Marjory  for  the  time 
faded  from  my  recollection,  and  I  was  only 
alive  to  my  ignominious  failure.     I  hastened  to 


100  "PUNCHINELLO" 

the  Doctor's,  arriving  in  such  a  tumult  of  feeh'ng 
that  I  could  hardly  greet  him  when  he  entered 
the  room. 

He  was  a  large  portly  person,  with  a  rubicund 
countenance  that  suggested  an  intimate  acquaint- 
ance with  the  delights  of  the  table,  and  an 
exceedingly  urbane  manner.  He  was  celebrated, 
I  learned  later,  for  his  aversion  to  aught  that 
savoured  of  friction  and  trouble,  and  had  appar- 
ently escaped  the  unpleasantnesses  of  life  .with 
much  success. 

"  Good -morning,  Mr.  Dallas,"  he  purred; 
"pray  be  seated."  He  waved  me  towards  a 
capacious  chair,  in  which  I  rashly  seated  myself 
and  was  speedily  enveloped.  I  struggled  to 
the  edge  of  it,  and  sat  waiting. 

"  I  have  come,"  I  began  intelligently.  It  was 
not  my  place  to  speak,  but  the  words  would  not 
be  withstood.     "  I  do  not  understand " 

He  waved  his  hand  again  and  I  was  dumb, 
oppressed  by  the  signal  weight  of  his  personality. 
"There  is  so  much  in  life,  my  dear  young 
friend,  that  we  cannot  understand,"  he  sonorously 
enunciated.  He  had  a  passionate  prejudice  in 
favour  of  the  trite.  "  I  have  sent  for  you,"  he 
went  on  placidly,  "owing  to  a — er — somewhat 
unpleasant  incident  connected  with   the— er — 


"  PUNCHINELLO  "  loi 

competition.  I  say  unpleasant,  but  there — er — 
is  no  reason  for — er — unpleasantness.  An 
explanation  will,  no  doubt — er — explain  every- 
thing." His  placid  patter  of  words  drove  me  to 
the  confines  of  madness,  but  I  kept  my  tongue 
between  my  teeth  and  prayed  for  patience. 

"  There  is  a  curious  similarity  between  your 
work  and  that  of  Maers,"  he  resumed. 

But  I  could  bear  no  more.  I  slipped  from 
my  chair  and  confronted  him.  As  he  was  sitting 
and  I  standing,  our  faces  were  almost  on  a  level. 
"  It—"  I  stammered,  "  I— he— we " 

He  regarded  me  imperturbably  and  purred 
afresh.  "  Agitation  is  always  to  be  deplored. 
Pray  be  seated,"  he  implored  me — there  was 
almost  a  note  of  pain  in  his  voice.  "  The  prize 
has  been  awarded  to  Maers,"  he  went  on  a 
shade  more  quickly,  spurred  no  doubt  by  the 
reflection  that  the  speedier  his  communication, 
the  speedier  my  departure.  "  There  was,  indeed, 
little  to  choose  between  the  compositions,  but 
the  final  vote  was  cast  in  favour  of  Maers.  As 
we  do  not  understand  the  similarity  between 
the  pieces,  and  Maers  can  throw  no  light,  we 
thought  that  you  might  possibly  be  able  to  do 
so." 

A  horrible  answer  to  the  riddle  was  in  my 


102  "PUNCHINELLO" 

mind,  but  I  still  kept  silence.  Had  I  opened 
my  mouth,  it  would  have  been  to  cry,  "  Fool ! 
fool ! " 

"  May  I  see  his  cantata  ?  "  I  asked  humbly. 

"  Most  certainly."  He  opened  a  drawer  at 
his  elbow,  and  handed  me  Maers'  composition. 

His  cantata  !  It  was  mine — almost  note  for 
note,  stolen  from  me  as  cleverly  as  theft  was 
ever  yet  committed.  My  song,  that  I  showed 
so  proudly  on  the  river  that  day,  here  it  was  ; 
and  now  I  understood  why,  for  all  our  amorous 
divergences,  we  had  always  returned  to  music  as 
the  Leit-motif  oi  our  talk. 

"You  can  explain,"  began  the  suave  voice 
again.  The  Doctor  was  regarding  me  ner- 
vously ;  something  of  my  disturbance  had  com- 
municated itself  to  the  air,  and  he  felt  the 
uncongenial  element.  I  wanted  time,  and  sought 
foolishly  to  attain  it. 

"  Why,  if  both  cantatas  were  equal,  was  Maers 
given  the  preference  ?  "  I  asked,  knowing  well 
that  my  colleague  had  friends  that  sat  in  high 
places  and  that  the  answer  was  not  far  to  seek. 
He  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then  spoke 
some  commonplace  explaining  the  preference  by 
some  fictitious  superiority  in  Maers'  work  which 
I  knew  well  did  not  exist     I  hardly  heard,  being 


"PUNCHINELLO"  103 

so  stunned  and  bruised  by  this  discovery  of 
perfidy.  My  attention  was  rivetted  by  little 
details  of  the  room,  from  which  my  eyes  wan- 
dered to  the  window,  whence  I  could  see  the 
gray  towers  of  Westminster,  and  in  the  distance 
a  silver  twinkle  of  water,  gay  with  shipping. 
My  eyes  came  back  to  the  room  and  fastened 
on  a  heavy  bookcase,  packed  with  Latin  and 
Greek  authors,  lending  an  air  of  erudition  to  the 
apartment.  Among  them  was  Plato,  and  I 
wondered  inconsequently  how  far  his  philo- 
sophy had  availed  him  in  my  present  plight. 
Then  my  eyes  in  their  journeyings  about  the 
room  arrived  at  Grenfell  and  fastened  on  his 
eupeptic  rosiness.  I  wondered  how  he  had  so 
successfully  evaded  the  slings  and  arrows  of 
outrageous  fortune.  Then,  to  my  eternal  shame 
be  it  said,  I  began  to  giggle,  with  wet  eyes, 
suffering  from  what  the  women  term  hysterics. 
A  great  knot  rose  and  choked  me  in  my  throat. 
I  desired  to  weep,  and  yet  laboured  to  keep  back 
mad  laughter.  "  Tut-tut,"  he  clucked,  "  agita- 
tion is  always  to  be  deplored, — always  to " 

And  then  my  risibility  won  the  day,  and  I 
rocked  in  my  chair,  shaken  with  hideous  mirth. 
I  laughed  and  laughed,  with  tears  running 
down  my  cheeks,  till  I  had  to  pause  for  lack 


104  "PUNCHINELLO" 

of  breath.  Every  time  I  realized  the  fulness  of 
my  gullibility  I  shouted  again,  and  when,  added 
to  this,  I  incidentally  caught  sight  of  the  troubled 
face  of  the  Doctor,  startled  out  of  all  its  normal 
placidity,  fresh  fuel  was  added  to  my  merri- 
ment. The  river  and  the  lilies — Marjory  in  her 
white  gown — my  golden  afternoon — the  plea- 
sant fooling  in  which  I  had  so  fervently  indulged 
— Maers  the  victor  in  a  trial  for  composition — it 
was  too  excellently  ludicrous,  and  the  large  pink 
face  before  me  puckered  into  unaccustomed 
worried  lines  from  which  ever  issued,  "  Be  calm  ; 
be  calm  !  Nothing  is  ever  gained  by  agitation  ; 
all,  no  doubt,  can  be  pleasantly  explained."  I 
got  away  somehow,  leaving  my  inquisitor  under 
the  impression  that  I  was  a  plagiarist  of  the 
first  water,  and  not  an  agreeable  one  at  that 
(which  last  I  cannot  help  thinking  did  for  me 
finally  in  his  favour).  A  plagiarist  may  be 
pardoned ;  but  a  plagiarist  who  plagiarises 
crudely,  and  accepts  natural  queries  with 
shrieks  of  laughter  and  tears,  who  is  un- 
pleasant to  the  eyes  and  who  apparently 
finds  it  impossible  to  do  things  "  pleasantly," 
was  practically  damned  in  Dr.  Grenfell's  eyes. 
"So  very  fatiguing,"  he  sighed  in  my  rear  as 
I  left  him,  promising  incoherently  to   explain 


**  PUNCHINELLO'*  tog 

everything  next  day.  "  So  very  fatiguing — and 
you  know,  my  dear  young  friend,"  he  laid  a 
hand  upon  my  shoulder,  which  I  shook  off,  and 
departed  in  a  flourish  of  cachinnation,  punctu- 
ated by  farewell. 

In  the  first  turmoil  of  feeling  I  felt  that  I  had 
relegated  myself  to  the  lowest  asinine  imbecility 
possible.  I  had  been  tricked,  fooled  with  such 
infinite  ease,  that  apparently  no  further  outlet 
for  such  particular  incapacity  was  possible ;  but 
the  Fates  furthered  me  downwards. 

I  went  to  my  room,  I  remember,  and  tried  to 
grasp  the  situation.  Of  course  Marjory  was 
blameless.  Simon  had  by  some  chance  got 
wind  of  my  ill-advised  confidences  and  utilised 
them.  She  had  been  tricked,  and  no  doubt  at 
this   moment   was  suffering   agonies   from   the 

prick    of    a    tender    conscience,  and     yet 

Here  an  interval  of  intelligence  intervened,  and 
I  tried  to  dismiss  Mistress  Davenant  from  my 
thoughts.  The  position,  indeed,  was  ugly 
enough.  It  is  unpleasant  to  start  professionally 
branded  with  the  stigma  of  plagiarism,  and  I 
failed  to  see  how  it  was  possible  to  clear  myself 
without  involving  Marjory,  at  which  thought  I 
revolted  for  all  my  anger.  Simon  at  least 
should  hear  what  I  thought  of  him  ;  but  when 


io6  "PUNCHINELLO" 

the  heart  is  one  white  blaze  of  anger,  words,  how- 
ever biting,  seem  but  a  poor  revenge.  I  cursed 
my  puny  inches,  as  I  thought  of  the  physical 
perfection  that  so  effectually  defended  him  from 
me.  One  thing  was  possible  to  me — to  write 
to  Marjory  and  accuse  her  straightly  of  her  act. 
I  knew  it  would  avail  me  nothing  eventually, 
but  I  grasped  at  the  solace  of  delivering  myself; 
and  so  with  mighty  preparations  I  sat  down 
and  indited  an  epistle.  As  I  filled  my  pen 
and  drew  my  paper  towards  me,  I  had  no  fears 
of  finding  suitable  expression  for  my  fury  ;  but 
no  sooner  had  I  made  all  arrangements  than  I 
found  myself  confronted  with  an  apparently 
insuperable  obstacle.  How  commence?  For 
the  last  weeks,  I  had  run  through  the  varied 
stages  of  address,  beginning  formally  and 
ending  in  most  lover-like  terms.  Now  I  had  to 
recommence,  which  I  did  with  the  stateliest 
courtesy.  I  found  a  copy  of  my  letter  lately. 
It  is  a  curious  document,  commencing  with 
frigidity  and  ending  in  a  flare  of  boyish 
anger. 

"  Mistress  Marjory  "  (it  opened  severely), 
"  I  am  informed  that  my  cantata  and  that 
wriettn   by    Mr.   Simon    Maers   are   practically 


"PUNCHINELLO"  107 

identical.  As  to  my  certain  knowledge  he 
knows  nothing  of  my  writing,  I  arrive  unwill- 
ingly at  the  conclusion  that  you  have  betrayed 
the  foolish  confidence  reposed  in  you  by  me. 
I  write  to  inform  you  that  I  intend  instruct- 
ing the  authorities  at  the  earliest  possible  date 
of  the  reason  of  this  peculiar  similarity." — 
(Now  here  I  should  have  stopped,  remaining 
her  obedient  servant,  but  my  heart  was  stronger 
than  my  head,  and  I  resumed  in  a  burst  of 
opprobrious  epithets.) — "  False,  fickle  !  I  cannot 
find  words  strong  enough  to  express  my  loath- 
ing of  the  meanness  of  which  you  have  been 
capable.  Oh,  Marjory !  all  the  hours  I  was 
basking  in  your  presence  you  were  meditating 
this  villainy.  Marjory,  I  can  even  now  not 
believe  it.  Write  and  tell  me  it  is  false.  Sug- 
gest some  means  by  which  Simon  has  been 
enabled  to  outwit  me.  Marjory,  my  loved  one,  I 
have  not  yet  seen  my  enemy,  who  is  away  from 
Town.  Possibly,  when  accused,  he  will  admit  his 
guilt  and  I  shall  be  for  ever  abashed." — (The 
mere  fact  of  corresponding  with  my  loved  one 
made  the  charm  of  her  presence  felt,  and  as  I 
wrote  I  almost  believed  that  she  was  guilt- 
less.)— "  Write  to  me  and  set  my  mind  at  ease." 
I  ended,  "  Marjory,  my  beloved,  I  cannot  bear 


lo8  "PUNCHINELLO'' 

this  foul  surmise  that  has  come  to  me  in  my 
dire  distress.     Marjory,  forgive  me ! 

"  Your  broken-hearted 

"  Anthony." 

This  curious  effusion  I  sealed  and  sent 
hurriedly,  not  daring  to  wait  longer.  It  had 
hardly  been  gone  an  hour  when  I  heard  a  tremu- 
lous knocking  at  my  door,  and  Simon  entered. 
"  Anthony,"  he  said,  "  Anthony."  His  voice  was 
broken  and  died  away  ashamed.  He  closed  the 
door  behind  him  and  stood  looking  at  me. 
Never  have  I  seen  a  man  so  honestly  abashed  ; 
his  eyes  refused  to  meet  mine  and  sought  the 
floor,  while  his  hands  pulled  feverishly  at  each 
other.  "  Yes,"  I  said,  "  what  would  you  ?  "  He 
dropped  into  a  chair  and  hid  his  face  between 
his  hands.  "  She  tempted  me,"  he  said  at  last. 
Now  before,  I  had  not  thought  highly  of  Mr. 
Maers,  but  at  these  words  I  found  him  the 
sorriest  cur  that  ever  stepped  on  earth.  I  made 
no  answer,  and  he  went  on  :  "  She  tempted 
me ;  she  said  it  would  help  on  our  marriage. 
With  this  success  I  shall  get  more  offers  for 
public  playing.  Besides,  there  is  the  money ; 
with  what  I  have  already  saved,  the  sum  is 
almost  complete.     Her  father  will  not  give  her 


"PUNCHINELLO*'  109 

to  me  unless  I  have  a  fair  sum  on  which  to 
commence  my  married  life.  The  disgrace,  the 
shame,"  he  stammered  in  his  incoherent  talk,  and 
failed  to  meet  my  eyes.  "  You  will  be  silent, 
Anthony,  for  her  sake  ?  "  Now  indeed  I  thought 
he  had  touched  the  lowest  rung.  "  Anthony, 
it  means  so  little  to  you,  you  are  so  clever, 
neither  do  you  want  the  money.  There  will  be 
no  scandal  ;  they  will  not  press  the  point.  My 
uncle  is  one  of  the  judges  ;  he  has  his  suspicions ; 
but  he  is  only  too  glad  that  I  succeed  by  foul 
means,  if  not  by  fair,  to  press  the  point ! 
Anthony ! "  But  still  I  sat  silent  with  locked 
lips. 

Then  without  in  the  passage  I  heard  the 
patter  of  feet,  and  a  woman  closely  veiled 
entered  and  flung  herself  before  me  on  her 
knees.  It  was  Marjory,  with  the  fair  whiteness 
of  her  face  all  blurred  by  tears.  "  For  my  sake, 
Anthony,"  she  said,  and  no  word  more,  while 
her  sobs  shook  her  from  head  to  foot. 

This  I  could  not  bear,  and  I  tried  to  raise  her, 
but  she  clung  to  me,  always  with  that  piteous 
whisper — "  Promise  me,  Anthony  ?  Oh,  the 
shame,  the  shame  !  I  am  undone  !  " — till  I  could 
stand  it  no  longer. 

"  You    are   safe   from   me,"   I    said   sharply, 


no  "PUNCHINELLO" 

fighting  to  speak  indifferently,  for  the  world 
seemed  rocking.  And  in  a  flash  she  was  on 
her  feet,  her  eyes  were  dried  and  her  lips 
smiling. 

"  Good  Anthony,"  she  said  sweetly,  "  I  could 
not  help  it — I  was  so  sorely  tempted.  We  do 
strange  things  for  love,"  she  mused,  "and  Simon 
there  has  not  the  gift,  for  all  his  cleverness.  I 
so  desired  to  help  him,"  she  explained,  with  a 
glance  at  her  lover,  who  stood  beside  her  with 
shamed,  averted  head.  "  Good-bye,  Tony,"  she 
added.  "  You  forgive,  eh  ?  We  do  much  for 
love." 

Here  I  spoke.  "  At  times  we  leave  a  thing 
undone — for  love,"  said  I.  She  looked  a  trifle 
abashed,  and  hurried  towards  the  door,  followed 
by  Maers.  Was  it  my  fancy  that  a  triumphant 
glance  flashed  between  them  ?    'M  fair  woman 

shall  lay  a  net "     "  You  did  not  care  at  all, 

then  ?  "  I  faltered.     God  knows  why  ! 

"  For  you  ?  "  she  said,  startled.  Her  eyes  en- 
veloped me,  and  I  shrank  from  the  contemp- 
tuous compassion. 

"  Oh  go,"  I  said,  and  they  left  me.  And 
when  they  were  gone  I  sobbed  with  bent 
head,  not  for  the  anguish  of  my  disappointment, 
which  indeed  was  keen,  nor  yet  for  the  trickery 


"PUNCHINELLO"  in 

to  which  I  had  been  subjected,  nor  for  loss  of 
friend  and  love.  All  was  swamped  in  a  great 
wave  of  pain.  "For  you?"  It  had  been  so 
genuine — the  amused  compassion  in  her  eyes. 

O  God,  what  had  I  done  that  Thy  Hand 
should  lay  so  heavy  on  me  ?  "  For  j/ou  ?  " 
Scant  wonder  that  she  was  amazed  that  I,  poor 
stunted  dwarf,  should  harbour  the  same  desires 
as  the  handsome  lad  at  her  side.  "  For  you  ?  " — 
the  light  words  stung  as  a  lash.  Yet  never  had 
I  said,  "  She  tempted  me." 


VI 


IT  spoke  largely  for  the  favouritism  of  these 
times  that  so  glaring  a  theft  could  be 
committed  with  impunity,  and  indeed  connived 
at  by  the  judges ;  for  nothing  but  connivance 
explains  the  ease  with  which  my  lame  apology 
satisfied  the  examiners.  I  term  it  an  apology 
for  lack  of  a  better  word  ;  it  was,  indeed,  no 
explanation,  being  a  confused  jumble  of  words 
in  which  I  traced  the  identity  of  the  compo- 
sitions partly  to  coincidence,  and  possibly  to 
my  having  heard  Maers'  songs  in  embryo. 
My  apology  was  so  absurd  that  I  could  not 
think  it  would  pass  ;  yet  it  was  impossible  for 
me  to  devise  a  better  plan,  thrash  my  brains 
as  I  might.  So  far  did  decency  prevail  that 
the  prize  was  withheld  from  us  both,  and  Maers 
gained  nothing  by  his  lady's  strategy.  This 
arose  in  great  part,  I  imagine,  from  the  open 
incredulity  of  some  others — Verlene  pre-emi- 
nently— who,  knowing  both  Maers  and  myself, 

112 


"PUNCHINELLO"  113 

scoffed    openly   at    the    notion   of   the   former 
excelling  me. 

I  cannot  think  that  my  affections  were  as 
deeply  involved  in  this  affair  as  1  imagined  at 
the  time,  but  my  pride  was  sorely  bruised  at 
the  ease  with  which  I  had  served  as  cat's-paw 
to  Mistress  Marjory,  and  her  evidently  sincere 
amazement  at  the  feelings  with  which  I  re- 
garded her  had  wakened  all  the  old  anguished 
revolt  at  the  doom  of  circumstance.  By  some 
recognition  of  compensation  being  due  to  me, 
I  was  offered  at  this  time  a  post  as  organist 
at  St.  Mary's,  in  Town,  which  I  gladly  accepted, 
being  thankful  to  change  the  scene  of  my  dis- 
comfitures, and  also  because  I  felt  that  it  em- 
bodied a  direct  recognition  of  my  ability — it 
being  commonly  reserved  for  older  men,  and 
carrying  with  it  a  fat  salary.  Before  taking 
up  my  duties,  I  went  now  for  a  few  weeks  to 
my  home.  I  found  my  mother  and  Cecily 
shaken  from  the  even  tenour  of  their  ways  by 
a  letter,  lately  arrived  from  the  brother  of  my 
father,  in  which  he  spoke  of  himself  as  dying 
and  commended  his  daughter  Nan  to  my 
mother's  care.  "  A  stranger  —  a  woman  —  a 
great  change  in  family  circumstances."  Cheap 
as   1   held    Mistress    Sylvia,    her   words,    mo- 

H 


114  "PUNCHINELLO" 

mentarily  forgotten,  were  quickened  with  new 
life. 

This  uncle  had  always  been  a  somewhat 
shadowy  personage  in  the  family  annals  ;  refer- 
ence to  him  was  rare,  and  always  accompanied 
by  a  reticence  that  suggested  to  the  kindest 
understanding  nebulous  improprieties.  Never 
having  known  my  father,  I  cannot  tell  whether 
the  family  affection  was  strong  enough  to  con- 
done the  fraternal  frailties,  or  whether  he  spoke 
of  Uncle  Harry  with  my  mother's  shake  of 
head  and  the  damning  adjectives,  "  Poor  dear  ! " 
— so  she  called  him,  and  the  words  are  enough 
to  sink  any  man.  Before  I  go  forth  to  the 
world  as  "  Poor  dear ! "  may  I  be  offered  the 
choice  of  the  savagest  epithet! 

Well,  I  learned,  on  returning  to  my  home, 
that  "poor  dear  Harry"  was  dead,  and  had 
bequeathed  us  his  daughter  of  sixteen  summers, 
who  was,  so  wrote  her  father,  not  lacking  in 
looks.  He  wrote,  indeed,  it  seemed  to  me, 
somewhat  over  eulogistically  of  her  graces  for 
one  so  near  of  kin,  and  considering  how  nearly 
he  trenched  on  things  eternal ;  he  also  dwelt 
with  too  generous  emphasis  on  her  physical 
charms,  and  the  price  that,  properly  offered, 
should  attend  them  in  the  market.      I  cannot 


"PUNCHINELLO"  115 

think  that  a  man  should  write  with  such  infinite 
unction  of  things  temporal  in  a  caligraphy 
already  tremulous  with  death. 

So  ran  his  letter,  showing  in  its  poor  pathetic 
scrawling  words  the  effort  with  which  it  had 
been  penned : — 

"My  dearest  Sister, —  The  sands  are 
nearly  spent,  or  I  had  not  dared  address  you. 
I  write  now  in  dire  distress  to  commend  to 
your  kind  offices  my  daughter  Nan,  who, 
when  I  am  no  more,  will  be  friendless.  She 
will  not  lack  competence,  and  her  beauty  is 
in  itself  a  fortune ;  yet,  for  all  this,  I  am 
fearful  of  her  future,  knowing  something  of 
the  snares  that  beset  young  maids" — (And 
indeed,  if  my  mother  spoke  accurately,  he  had 
set  a  generous  portion  himself,  being  no  lean 
liver  and  of  an  excellent  taste  in  woman), — 
"and  so  I  pray  you,  my  very  dear  sister,  to  have 
compassion  on  her  and  take  her  into  your 
household.  I  have  written  to  the  Lady  Agatha 
— my  Nan's  godmother — begging  her  also  to 
extend  her  protection.  She  is  a  lady  of  fashion, 
and  will  no  doubt  invite  Nan  to  town  for  a 
time  when  her  mourning  be  ended  " — (Did  ever 
man  anticipate  the  advent  of  the  great   King 


ii6  "PUNCHINELLO" 

so  coolly  beforehand?) — "and  be  the  means,  per- 
haps, of  her  making  a  brilliant  marriage,  which 
indeed  she  should  do,  dowered  as  she  is.  I 
can  write  no  more.  For  Christ's  sake  have  pity- 
on  her  ...  I  dare  not  pray  your  clemency 
on  my  own  behalf;  but  she  is  but  a  child,  and 
is  guileless  of  any  part  in  the  sad  past.  I  write 
no  more,  leaving  her  to  plead  her  own  cause, 
which  she  will  assuredly  do  with  success,  carry- 
ing as  she  does  the  earnest  of  a  pure  soul  in 
her  face.  I  pray  the  Lady  Agatha  may  secure 
her  future ;  she  is  fair  and  she  is  rich — not  a 
maid,  methinks,  to  go  a-begging " 

And  with  this  last  vain-glorious  boast,  the 
letter  ended  in  a  weakly-written  signature. 

It  had  flung  our  peaceful  household  into  a 
very  fever.  My  mother,  although  never  for 
a  moment  dreaming  of  refusing  the  guardian- 
ship thus  thrust  upon  her,  yet  fretted  at  the 
responsibility  attached  to  it,  while  Cecily  was 
all  agog  with  joyous  anticipation  at  the  thought 
of  a  companion.  For  myself,  I  earnestly  en- 
deavoured to  deter  my  mother  from  receiving 
another  inmate  into  our  home,  and  especially 
one  with  so  unhappy  an  ancestry,  holding  as 
I  did  a  firm  belief  in  heredity,  and  foreseeing 


"PUNCHINELLO"  T17 

troubles  ahead.  But  so  soon  as  I  counselled 
prudence,  pointing  out  that  the  girl  was  by  no 
means  friendless,  having  the  mighty  Lady 
Agatha  at  her  back,  or  even,  if  this  female 
prove  indifferent,  having  at  her  disposal  money 
and  beauty,  with  which  no  woman  need  face 
the  world  unattended — my  dear  one  fell  on  me 
in  a  very  fury  of  compassion,  crying  out  how 
pitiful  it  was  for  a  young  girl  to  be  bereft  of 
her  natural  protector  at  so  early  an  age,  and 
how  it  behoved  her  to  atone  by  an  excess  of 
kindness  for  so  sharp  a  desolation.  This  is  a 
trait  that  I  have  ever  noted  in  women,  even  in 
the  very  best — a  curious  love  of  contradiction 
that  always  insists  on  their  adopting  an  anta- 
gonistic attitude  to  the  one  preferred  by  their 
companion.  I  would  lay  my  last  stiver  that 
had  I  welcomed  my  cousin's  advent,  my  mother 
would  have  flowed  over  with  reasons  against 
her  coming.  Indubitably  she  would  have  re- 
ceived her,  and  cossetted  and  petted  her  to  the 
verge  of  foolishness  when  it  came  to  the  prac- 
tical point,  but  she  would  first  have  enjoyed  a 
preliminary  difficulty — she  would  have  feared 
for  Cecily's  sake — she  herself  was  no  longer 
young,  etc.,  etc.  Women  are  ever  so,  being 
characterised,  whether  young  or  old,  wise  ma- 


ii8  "PUNCHINELLO" 

trons  or  foolish  virgins,  by  an  eternal  and 
sweet  unreasonableness.  Now,  when  she  had 
sufficiently  pointed  out  to  me  my  callousness 
in  demurring  at  the  advent  of  this  lovely 
stranger,  she  vouchsafed  me  a  precis  of  my 
Uncle  Harry's  life,  and  explained  the  reason 
of  his  addressing  her  with  such  humility.  It 
appeared  that  from  his  earliest  youth  Master 
Harry  had  devoted  himself  to  the  philosophy  of 
pleasure,  showing  himself  an  apt  pupil  and  mas- 
tering all  the  tenets  of  Epicureanism  with  fatal 
facility.  His  ambition  was  to  be  a  soldier,  and 
its  gratification  helped  him  on  his  downward 
path,  he  being  able  when  in  the  army  to  satisfy 
his  love  of  gambling  and  strong  waters  without  in- 
terference. All  went  merrily  as  marriage  bells  for 
some  two  years,  and  then  came  the  reckoning. 
It  appeared  that  this  gentleman,  for  all  his  vices, 
was  blessed  by  fortune  with  a  wonderfully  win- 
ning personality  that  insured  him  friends,  even 
apparently  of  the  rare  genus  that  appear  in 
time  of  need  ;  for  no  sooner  was  he  in  straits 
than  a  saviour  appeared  in  the  form  of  a  Cap- 
tain Lascelles,  who  paid  up  his  debts,  and  was 
with  difficulty  persuaded  to  accept  an  I.O.U. 
According  to  my  mother,  no  one  was  more 
amazed  than  the  culprit,  he  having  always  re- 


"PUNCHINELLO'*  119 

garded  Lascelles  with  something  of  contempt, 
as  slow  of  wit  and  bucolic  in  appearance, 
"over-suggestive  of  beef  and  beer,"  my  mother 
had  it,  and  absolutely  devoid  of  drawing-room 
arts.  Yet  this  heavy  individual  had  apparently 
admired  my  brilliant  uncle  from  afar,  and  when 
Nemesis  overtook  him  he  showed  the  strength 
of  his  devotion  to  the  tune  of  many  hundreds 
of  pounds.  He  not  only  paid  my  uncle's  debts, 
but  he  likewise  made  him  free  of  his  house, 
stretching  out  a  friendly  hand  at  a  time  when 
his  boon-companions  for  the  greater  part  looked 
distinctly  askance  at  my  unfortunate  relative. 
Mr.  Harry,  not  being  of  a  diffident  habit,  seems 
to  have  taken  full  advantage  of  this  foolishly 
accorded  permission,  and  also  to  have  had  his 
woes  solaced  with  considerable  success  by  Mrs. 
Lascelles,  a  lady  reputed  of  decided  attraction. 
They  apparently  suited  each  other  so  admirably 
as  to  risk  scandal  and  marital  vengeance  by  an 
elopement,  rendered  possible  by  the  outraged 
husband's  generosity  in  the  first  instance,  and 
trusting  faith  in  the  second.  It  was  indeed  a 
scurrilous  return,  yet  fortune  favoured  knavery, 
for  the  captain  was  so  agitated  at  this  unlooked- 
for  response  to  his  kindness,  as  to  quit  the 
world  in  an  apoplexy  at  discovering  the  trea- 


120  "PUNCHINELLO" 

chery  of  his  friend  and  wife,  and  the  infidelity- 
remained  unavenged.  The  sinews  of  war  soon, 
however,  became  exhausted,  and  having  killed 
the  goose  that  laid  the  golden  egg,  mine  tmcle 
looked  vainly  round  for  succour.  He  was  con- 
strained to  leave  the  army,  and  shortly  touched 
with  his  paramour  the  lowest  depths  of 
desolation.  The  love — if  so  pure  a  term  can 
be  utilized  to  express  so  vile  a  passion — that 
had  brought  them  to  such  sad  pass,  proved 
inefficient  to  condone  the  material  miseries  of 
their  state.  They  parted  by  mutual  consent 
(according  to  my  uncle,  whose  statements  I 
ever  receive  with  certain  restrictions),  and  he 
shortly  appealed  to  my  father  for  monetary 
help,  basing  his  claim  on  a  professed  desire  to 
lead  a  clean  life  for  the  future  and  an  abject 
repentance  of  the  past.  He  appears  to  have 
failed  to  impress  my  father  with  a  due  sense 
of  even  tardy  virtue  ;  my  parent  punctuating 
his  wordy  regrets,  with  reiterated  assertions  to 
the  effect  that  his  abduction  in  the  past  paled 
in  villainy  when  compared  to  his  present  deser- 
tion. My  mother  places  the  scene  most  happily 
in  her  pregnant  phrase,  "  Your  father  said  only : 
*What  have  you  done  with  her?  what  have 
you  done  with  her  ? '  sweeping  away  all  Harry's 


"PUNCHINELLO"  12I 

penitence  with  an  impatient  shrug  of  shoulder. 
I  cannot  understand,"  continued  my  mother, 
with  her  rare  tightening  of  the  lips,  "his  infinite 
pity.  I  would  have  done  my  duty  by  her,  but 
I  cannot  understand  the  tenderness  with  which 
he  spoke  of  her.  She  put  herself,  of  her  own 
will,  outside  the  pale." 

"She  was  no  worse  than  Uncle  Harry,"  I 
hazarded. 

"He  was  a  man,"  she  returned,  "and  but 
young." 

"And  she?"    I  queried. 

"  Five-and-twenty,"  said  my  mother,  regarding 
me  with  disapproval.  "  I  could  almost  think 
you  desire  to  defend  her,"  she  added  tartly. 

"  I  defend  no  one,"  I  said ;  "  but  I  cannot 
think  it  good  logic  to  paint  the  one  criminal 
so  much  blacker  than  the  other.  I  fail  to 
distinguish." 

"She  was  a  woman."  The  finality  in  her 
tone  was  unanswerable. 

"She  was  a  woman,"  and  so  I  would  add 
for  rider,  "God  help  her!"  Over  and  over 
again,  times  multiplied  beyond  arithmetic,  have 
I  wondered  in  my  long  span  of  years  at  this 
curious  condemnation  of  woman  by  woman — 
at  the  charity  so  universally  accorded  to  man, 


122  "PUNCHINELLO" 

yet  so  pitilessly  withheld  one  from  the  other 
by  the  weaker  sex.  "  She  was  a  woman,"  and 
therefore  condemned  by  that  gentlest  of  crea- 
tures— my  mother. 

"Your  father,"  she  resumed,  "saw  no  virtue 
in  Harry.  He  took  the  severest  reading  pos- 
sible of  his  conduct,  finding  by  some  strange 
paradoxical  reasoning  his  blackest  act  in  what 
he  termed  his  blackguardly  desertion,  by  which 
extreme  expression  he  alluded  to  his  tardy 
recognition  of  the  awfulness  of  his  sin  and 
his  determination  for  the  future  to  lead  a  fair 
life.  He  spoke  so  hardly  that  Harry  rejected 
the  guineas  with  which  he  ended  his  homily ; 
they  were,  indeed,  offered  in  no  happy  guise, 
*  Even  carrion  has  its  claims,'  said  your  father, 
and  so  flung  the  money  at  your  uncle.  Your 
father  had  ever  a  bitter  tongue,"  explained  my 
mother  in  excuse,  "and  Harry  a  hot  temper. 
He  left  the  money  lying  there,  and  struck  your 
father  between  the  eyes,  drawing  blood  and 
leaving  a  scar  to  death.  I  heard  the  scuffle,  and 
opening  the  door  found  them  locked  in  each 
other's  arms.  Your  father,  on  seeing  me,  drew 
away,  and  Harry  flung  himself  out  of  the  room, 
and  I  have  never  set  eyes  on  him  since  that 
most  unhappy  hour.     I  heard,  some  seventeen 


"  PUNCHINELLO  "  123 

years  later,  that  he  had  married  an  Italian  sig- 
norina  of  fortune,  and  I  have  prayed  he  might 
be  happy.  Poor  dear  Harry!  his  being  exposed 
to  the  machinations  of  that  designing  temptress, 
Netta  Lascelles,  was  the  direst  of  misfortunes." 

"What  of  her?"  I  asked. 

"  She  remained  in  the  mud,"  sniffed  my  dear 
one. 

"  And  my  estimable  relative  ? "  I  fought 
vainly  to  stifle  the  sarcasm  in  my  voice. 

"  He  got  an  appointment  under  the  Govern- 
ment, and  married,  as  I  have  said,  an  Italian 
signorina  of  good  family.  He  has  held  no 
communication  with  us  until  this  date,"  re- 
sumed my  mother  briskly,  "  when  he  prays  me 
take  my  niece  under  my  protection,  which 
I  shall  most  assuredly  do." 

"  Lady  Agatha } "  I  queried. 

"  I  know  nothing  of  her.  Nan  will  no  doubt 
explain." 

And  so  my  mother  left  me  chewing  the  cud 
of  my  reflection.  Fresh  from  Marjory,  I  could 
not  bear  the  thought  of  a  petticoat,  seeing  in 
every  woman  a  Delilah  ;  yet,  for  all  my  egoistic 
regret,  I  could  not  but  think  my  mother  did 
rightly  in  being  true  to  her  dear  self,  side  by 
side  with  which  assurance  ran  the  comfortable 


124  "PUNCHINELLO" 

consciousness  that  my  sojourn  at  home  before 
leaving  for  London  would  be  brief 

She  arrived  shortly  after  her  father's  letter, 
heralded  by  a  brief  note  from  the  lawyer  who 
had  had  the  management  of  her  father's  affairs, 
in  which  he  concisely  stated  what  monies  had 
been  left  her,  and  how  they  were  invested.  It 
appeared  that  my  uncle,  with  the  naive  disre- 
gard of  common  law  that  characterised  him, 
had  appointed  my  mother  his  daughter's  guar- 
dian without  troubling  her  for  her  consent. 
He  had  ever,  she  explained  with  a  condoning 
smile,  an  objection  to  formulas. 


VII 


AT  the  risk  of  stamping  myself  foolishly 
self-conscious,  I  must  admit  that  I  care- 
fully avoided  my  cousin  for  the  first  hours  of 
her  arrival,  dreading  the  compassionate  glance 
with  which  I  was  so  terribly  familiar.  I  failed 
to  remember  in  my  colossal  egoism  that  pity  for 
others  is  rare  when  a  great  personal  sorrow  is  in 
its  first  burst,  and  that  the  man  whom  I  held  so 
cheap  in  his  living  and  dying  may  have  filled  a 
niche  in  his  daughter's  heart  So  I  held  myself 
aloof  from  her  until  the  supper  hour,  when  I 
took  my  courage  in  both  hands  and  entered  the 
parlour  with  such  calmness  as  I  could  muster. 
Now  I  had  pictured  her  of  a  certain  beauty,  for 
even  the  prejudiced  affection  of  a  father  has  its 
limits,  and  there  is  always  in  any  extreme 
admiration  certain  hints  which  have  been  exag- 
gerated into  statement.  Still  the  hint  is  there 
if  patiently  sought,  and  I  was  certain  Mistress 
Nancy  had  some  claim  to  be  considered  pass- 
able if  not  beautiful.  Also  I  had  determined 
m 


126  "PUNCHINELLO" 

her  moderately  grieved,  showing  the  resignation 
that  is  so  poor  a  compliment  to  the  dead,  and  is 
held  to  cast  such  a  halo  of  superiority  upon  the 
living — a  virtue  which  in  this  case  one  had 
thought  not  beyond  the  reach  of  the  most 
nearly  related,  holding  the  villainy  of  the 
defunct  clearly  in  mind.  I  expected  her 
swathed  in  crape,  arrayed  in  the  most  sombre 
habiliments,  thereby  tendering  a  sartorial  tribute 
to  the  dead.  She  would  be  heavy,  glum  with 
sorrow,  yet  not  closed  to  consolation.  I  would 
detract  her  attention,  diverting  her  from  her 
late  griefs,  imbue  her  with  new  interests, 
writhing  the  while  under  the  pitying  glances, 
which,  as  I  knew  from  past  experience,  would 
be  fixed  on  my  malformed  spine.  Only  Mar- 
jory had  ever  refrained  from  unhappy  expres- 
sion of  sympathy,  and  she  had  given  her 
natural  instinct  full  rein  when  the  necessity  for 
self-control  was  passed  and  she  had  attained 
her  end.  I  braced  myself  to  endeavour  as  I 
entered  the  room,  fearing  to  give  my  curiosity 
rein  in  too  curious  a  glance,  and  striving  to 
simulate  a  serene  demeanour.  Written  here,  in 
this  hard  black  and  white,  my  ever-wakeful 
consciousness  of  deformity  reads  a  puerile  weak- 
ness.    I  indeed  recognised  it  as  such,  and  was 


"  PUNCHINELLO  "  127 

for  ever  striving  to  overcome  it,  yet  for  all  my 
struggles  a  meeting  with  a  stranger,  especially 
a  woman,  filled  me  with  shame.  My  hump 
seemed  to  press  upon  my  back  more  heavily, 
and  my  imagination,  needing  no  physical  sight, 
showed  it  me  in  exaggerated  hideousness  ;  my 
stunted  stature,  emphasized  by  the  width  of  my 
shoulders,  the  colossal  size  of  my  head  lending 
me  a  ridiculous  suggestion  of  overweight — all 
this  I  saw  with  mental  eyes  that  spared  me 
nothing.  There  is  an  optimistic  fallacy  abroad 
that  dwarfs  are  protected  by  a  sturdy  crust  of 
self-satisfaction  that  renders  them  impervious  to 
an  appearance  that  would  be  intolerable  to 
more  sensitive  organizations  ;  they  are  held  con- 
ceited, bitter-natured,  spiced  with  spite,  and 
commonly  characterized  by  an  infernal  personal 
vanity,  based,  the  public  has  it,  on  their  very 
defects.  I  may  have  been  the  one  exception 
that  proves  the  general  rule,  but  I  cannot  think 
it.  The  world  is  full,  in  my  belief,  of  wretches 
doomed  to  an  inglorious  martyrdom,  writhing 
under  compassionate  eyes  and  stinging  from 
pitying  words,  endeavouring  with  scant  success 
to  hide  their  mortification  under  a  cloak  of 
cheap  cynicism  and  a  turn  of  mocking  speech. 
To  be  truthful,  on  entering  our  parlour  I  did 


128  "PUNCHINELLO" 

for  the  moment  forget  myself  in  blank  astonish- 
ment. Crouched  in  the  large  armchair  in  the 
corner  sat  Nan,  crying  as  I  have  never  seen 
another  cry.  Her  face  was  half  twisted  round 
and  pressed  against  the  back  of  the  seat,  her  feet 
were  drawn  up — I  could  just  catch  the  twinkle 
of  a  shoe-buckle  beneath  her  frock — and  she  was 
sobbing  in  an  abandonment  of  tears  that  defies 
description.  Children  cry  in  something  of  this 
fashion  with  a  hearty,  never- tiring  vigour,  but 
never  before  or  since  have  I  witnessed  such  a 
torrent  of  grief  in  an  adult.  To  add  to  the 
strangeness,  she  wore  no  outer  sign  of  woe,  but 
was  attired  in  a  scarlet  cotton  gown  made  in 
cunning  fashion  with  innumerable  tucks  and 
laces,  falling  loosely  round  her.  I  could  see  the 
back  of  a  dark  curly  head  and  one  little  white 
hand,  in  which  was  rolled  a  wet  wisp  of  cam- 
bric ;  her  face  was  completely  hidden,  only  she 
sobbed,  and  sobbed,  and  sobbed,  till  it  seemed 
as  if  the  violence  of  her  woe  would  wrench  her 
slim  body  in  twain.  My  mother  sat  beside 
her  whispering  gentle  comforting  words  which 
apparently  availed  nothing.  I  was  about  to 
retire,  but  my  mother  stayed  me  with  a  gesture. 
"  Here  is  your  cousin,  Anthony,"  she  said, 
resting  a  hand  on  the  girl's  shoulder,  which  was 


"PUNCHINELLO"  129 

promptly  shaken  off  with  a  gesture  that  for  all 
her  grief  I  could  not  but  think  a  trifle  petulant. 
But  my  mother  persevered. 

"  Here  is  your  cousin,  Anthony,"  she  said 
again,  and  for  all  answer  Mistress  Nancy  buried 
her  face  a  little  deeper  in  the  cushion.  Then 
my  mother  motioned  me  to  seat  myself,  and  we 
talked  a  little  of  the  weather  and  the  crops,  and 
such  like  commonplaces,  ignoring  the  unhappy 
baby  huddled  in  the  chair.  Our  diplomacy  was 
soon  rewarded,  the  sobbing  grew  fainter,  the 
pressure  on  the  friendly  chair-back  less,  and 
Mistress  Nancy  lifted  her  ruffled  head  and 
turned  and  looked  on  me. 

I  might  have  spared  myself  those  previous 
tremors.  I  have  written  the  words  "looked 
on  me,"  as  expressing  an  accurate  definition 
of  her  act ;  she  certainly  looked  on  me,  but  I 
doubt  her  seeing  me.  Yet  I,  by  some  accident 
that  the  godly  had  termed  divine,  saw  at  that 
moment  the  real  Nan.  She  took  in  the  after- 
math as  many  changes  as  a  weathercock,  flying 
from  one  point  to  another  with  the  utmost  ease 
and  all  genuine  for  the  hour.  My  pretty  one, 
there  were  some  who  flung  stones  at  you  later — 
yet  I  must  stay  my  hand  writing  of  them.  Did 
not  I,  vouchsafed  an  initial  understanding,  mis- 

I 


130  "PUNCHINELLO" 

understand  and  so  lead  to  that — accident?  I 
will  not  erase  the  pause.  I  am  old,  growing 
very  old,  and  at  times  the  correct  word  is  hard 
to  seek.  Accident,  yes  accident,  I  know,  every 
one  knows  ;  yet  at  times  I  use  other  nomen- 
clature, and  people  call  me  mad.  But  I  am  not 
mad,aswriting  this  coherent  chronicle  will  prove. 
I  suffer  only  from  Anno  Domini — a  common 
failing— and  Nan  had  an  accident.  Accident ! 
accident !  I  love  the  word  accident.  Perhaps 
they  are  right,  and  there  is  a  queer  crank  in  my 
brain,  for  at  times  I  see  another  word  blazoned 
on  sea  and  land,  but  that  word  will  not  write — 
it  was  an  accident.  Shame  on  me  to  vapour  so 
wildly  instead  of  telling  my  tale  in  straight- 
forward terms  !  It  seems  as  if  I  could  not  hold 
myself  to  the  point  and  make  steadily  to  the 
end,  but  must  be  for  ever  doubling  and  turning, 
flying  to  the  extremest  end  of  my  narration  and 
then  dwelling  by  the  way  on  some  minor  trifle 
that  holds  no  claim  to  interest.  But  one  thing 
is  sure,  whatever  I  do,  my  imagination  must  not 
rest  unduly  on  that — accident.  I  do  strange 
things  when  my  thoughts  fly  there,  impelled  by 
terrible  remembrances,  and  people  call  me  mad 
— an  ugly  word  ;  I  love  it  not,  neither  is  it  true  ; 
did    they   but    know.      Sometimes    the    more 


"PUNCHINELLO"  131 

cultured  among  them,  aiming  at  exact  ex- 
pression, term  me  a  monomaniac,  which  is  to 
say  mad  on  the  one  subject,  viz. — no,  I  will  not 
write  it,  but  rather  return  to  Nan  in  her  great 
chair  looking  at  me  with  swollen  eyes,  which,  I 
would  lay  a  handsome  wager,  saw  me  not. 
The  tears  were  still  wet  on  her  pretty  face,  but 
she  did  not  appear  conscious  of  them  ;  her 
mouth  drooped  at  the  corners  as  that  of  a 
miserable  child  ;  the  colour,  though  of  God's 
painting,  was  washed  from  her  cheeks  by  her 
tears,  and  her  eyes,  like  great  black  stars, 
looked  out  from  under  a  mass  of  curling  hair 
that  fell  low  on  her  brows.  Never,  and  I  have 
rubbed  shoulders  with  those  who  have  drunk 
deep  of  the  waters  of  Marah,  have  I  seen  such 
desolation  in  a  face  ;  she  looked  stunned  with 
grief,  and  all  for  love  of  that  ne'er-do-well,  mine 
uncle  Harry.  On  the  little  white  face  turned 
towards  me,  I  read  a  capability  for  suffering 
that  shocked  me,  but  before  twenty-four  hours 
had  passed  I  could  have  sworn  that  my  cousin 
was  incapable  of  grief,  presenting  as  she  did  an 
incarnate  joy. 

To  return  to  the  hour  of  our  introduction,  she 
looked  at  me  a  moment  unseeingly,  and  then  a 
touch  of  self-consciousness  stole  into  her  face, 


132  "PUNCHINELLO" 

and  she  sat  straight  in  her  chair  and  uncurled 
her  feet  from  under  her,  regarding  me  somewhat 
shamefacedly.  "  Is  it — Anthony  ?  "  she  said  ; 
and  looked  from  me  to  my  mother  and  back 
again,  as  though  praying  an  introduction  ;  she 
had  obviously  heard  nothing  of  my  mother's 
words.  "Your  cousin,  Tony,"  my  mother  said 
again,  and  smiled  at  me  with  a  touch  of  nervous- 
ness knowing  my  sensitiveness,  and  then  left  the 
room.  Up  jumps  Mistress  Nancy  and  straight- 
way makes  me  the  handsomest  curtsey.  "  How 
did  I  do  it  ?  "  said  she,  almost  before  she  had 
regained  her  natural  pose.  "  Some  tell  me  I 
am  awkward,"  she  remarked,  with  the  utmost 
gravity.  "  I  could  not  bear  to  be  awkward." 
In  her  elevated  eyebrows  I  read  an  insistent 
interrogation,  and  mumbled  complimentarily. 

"  I  was  a  fool  to  ask  you  ;  men  can  only  say 
one  thing."  She  turned  an  irritable  shoulder 
upon  me,  and  I  loved  her.  Men !  men !  She 
classed  me  among  my  happier  brethren  without 
thought  of  differentiation,  and  my  heart  went 
out  to  her.  Until  this  moment  I  had  harboured 
the  saddest  terrors,  born  of  an  agonising  ex- 
perience, about  our  meeting.  She  would  pity 
me,  no  doubt ;  and  pity,  some  liar  has  written,  is 
akin  to  love.    Truer  tongues  have  placed  it  in 


"PUNCHINELLO"  133 

painful  proximity  to  contempt,  but  she  said 
"  Meuy"  and  I  loved  her  for  the  word. 

"  I  had  no  thought  of  flattering,"  I  babbled. 
"  To  my  mind  it  was  a  very  charming  greeting." 

"  *  Stiff  in  the  uprising ! '  some  whisper.  Now 
look,  and  tell  me  true  ! "  and  to  my  great  amaze- 
ment she  dropped  me  another  curtsey,  or 
indeed,  to  speak  more  correctly,  the  first  half 
of  a  curtsey,  and  remained  half-bent  in  the 
prettiest  pose.  "  Now  see  me  rise,  and  tell  me 
true."  And  she  swayed  again  to  her  feet  and 
looked  at  me  anxiously.  She  looked  at  me  for 
a  moment  in  silence,  and  then,  seeing  the  trouble 
in  my  face,  turned  contemptuously  on  her  heel. 
"  You  are  ignorant  of  these  things,  I  see,"  she 
tossed  over  her  shoulder  in  the  loftiest  tone. 
"  I  thought,  coming  lately  from  Town,  your 
opinion  had  been  worth  hearing,"  and  left  me 
standing  there.  Lately  from  Town  and  so  knew 
the  fashions  in  curtseys  !  Did  she  imagine  I 
spent  my  time  tacked  on  to  gay  petticoats, 
studying  the  tricks  of  their  owners.  I  could 
hear  the  click  of  her  high  heels  on  the  wide, 
shallow  stairs  as  she  mounted.  Lately  she  had 
been  sobbing  her  heart  out,  and  now  was  eager 
to  know  the  proper  curtsey.  She  left  me  some- 
what breathless,  I  remember,  vaguely  trying  to 


134  "PUNCHINELLO" 

understand  whether  she  had  been  stiff.  I  could 
remember  nothing  but  the  warm  whiteness  of 
her  neck  turned  towards  me,  and  her  eager  eyes 
still  heavy  from  her  late  lamentations. 

Within  a  few  moments  she  and  my  mother 
entered  the  room  again,  linked  arm  in  arm, 
Mistress  Nan  chattering  like  a  jay  and  with 
never  a  hint  of  her  late  troubles  glooming  her 
vivacity.  Heavens,  how  she  talked,  flying  from 
one  subject  to  another  as  a  bird  from  tree  to 
tree,  interlarding  her  speech  with  scraps  of 
French  and  Italian,  laughing  shrilly,  moved  to 
merriment  by  her  own  gay  speech.  She  was 
adorably,  astonishingly  pretty,  in  a  brilliant 
mocking  style,  and  she  seemed  to  me  to  flash 
like  some  rare  jewel  as  she  sat  before  me  in  her 
scarlet  gown.  I  remember  it  was  bandless  at 
the  neck  and  that  she  wore  a  string  of  pearls 
twisted  round  the  rare  column  of  her  throat, 
and  that  her  hair,  a  thing  I  had  never  before 
seen  in  woman,  was  cut  close  all  over  her  head, 
and  curled  in  soft  dark  tendrils  like  a  child's. 
Across  the  years  I  feel  my  blood  run  warmer 
for  memory  of  the  sparkle  of  her  presence  and 
the  freshness  of  her  laughter.  Nan,  if  you 
know  aught  in  the  Great  Beyond  of  us  below, 
understand  and  believe  that  it  was  the  mon- 


"PUNCHINELLO"  135 

strous  strength  of  my  love  that  served  to  my 
undoing.  I  loved  you  then,  I  loved  you  to 
your  last  breath  on  earth.  Dear  heart !  I 
cherish  the  tiniest  memory  of  you  now  with 
greater  love  than  other  quick  or  dead,  and 
they  glance  covertly  at  me  and  make  strange 
gestures,  signifying  that  my  reason  rocks.  We 
know  better,  sweetheart — you  and  I ! 

My  mother  and  Cecily  at  this  first  meal  ably 
seconded  my  cousin  in  her  desire  to  cast  sadness 
behind  her ;  they  talked  easily  and  without 
apparent  strain,  avoided  unfortunate  allusion, 
while  I  for  once,  proving  my  right  to  be  termed 
a  man,  blundered  hopelessly.  All  these  years 
I  had  never  spoken  of  my  uncle,  yet  now  my 
innocentest  observation  by  some  elfish  trick  of 
fate  inevitably  trenched  upon  this  subject.  Nan 
talked  lightly  of  life  abroad,  and  I  told  an 
anecdote  (a  good  anecdote  by  the  way,  yet 
none  the  less  inexcusable)  of  one  who  had 
cheated  creditors  on  the  charitable  Continent. 
My  mother  drew  her  brows  together  and  looked 
black  as  a  paid  mourner,  while  Cecily  glared  at 
me  and  then  threw  an  agitated  glance  towards 
Nan  so  as  to  further  emphasize  my  discom- 
fiture, which  is  often  the  way  with  women. 
Mistress  Nancy  only  glinted  her  black  eyos  at 


136  "  PUNCHINELLO  *» 

me,  and  shrilled  with  laughter,  in  perfect  sym- 
pathy with  the  culprit.  I  later  learned  that  she 
cherished  not  only  a  passionate  love,  but  also  a 
deep  respect  for  her  father,  and  saw  not  even  a 
fortuitous  resemblance  between  him  and  the 
hero  of  my  tale.  He  must  have  used  his 
histrionic  ability  to  the  utmost  limit,  for  if  ever 
an  unhung  rascal  had  walked  the  earth,  it  was 
mine  Uncle  Harry. 


VIII 

FOR  a  day  or  so  foUowing  the  arrival  of  my 
cousin  I  saw  little  of  her,  she  keeping 
her  chamber  for  the  greater  part,  rising  late  and 
seeking  her  bed  early.  She  seemed  worn  out 
with  the  past  stress  to  which  she  had  been 
subjected,  and  slept  till  the  day  was  stale.  My 
mother  fussed  round  her  when  she  descended, 
with  cushions  and  strong  soup,  as  is  the  way  of 
women,  and  Mistress  Nan  would  at  times  play 
the  invalid,  assuming  for  the  nonce  the  sickliest 
airs  and  toying  with  her  food  in  a  genteel 
manner,  while  in  other  moods  she  would  affect 
the  most  boisterous  spirits.  Her  fatigue,  I  am 
assured,  was  genuine  enough  ;  she  would  laugh 
and  talk,  entertaining  us  merrily,  while  the 
black  shadows  grew  beneath  her  eyes,  telling 
of  her  exhaustion.  My  mother  told  me  she 
had  terrible  interludes  of  weeping  like  the  one 
I  had  witnessed,  and  that  these  would  be 
succeeded  by  fits  of  the  maddest  merriment. 
Nan   was  ever  a  creature  of  moods   and   im- 

187 


tsd  "PUNCHINELLO'* 

pulses,  sombre  as  crape  one  hour,  and  before 
one  had  space  to  inquire  the  why  and  where- 
fore of  this  mournfullest  mood,  positively  corus- 
cating with  gaiety. 

She  wore  always  her  scarlet  gown,  some- 
times doffing  it  in  the  evening  for  a  white 
satin,  cut  rather  over-low  my  mother  thought, 
from  which  her  exquisite  neck  and  shoulders 
rose  triumphant,  lending,  it  seemed  to  me, 
by  force  of  contrast  a  hint  of  dinginess  to 
her  glistening  robe.  My  dear  one  was  much 
vexed  at  my  cousin's  fixed  aversion  to  wear- 
ing a  black  gown.  "  He  hated  it,"  she  sobbed 
when  my  mother  tried  to  impress  her  with 
a  sense  of  conventionality  and  the  outraged 
susceptibilities  of  our  neighbours.  "  He  always 
hated  mourning  clothes.  I  will  never  do 
what  he  hated — never — never  !  "  she  sobbed, 
and  then,  by  way  of  emphasizing  her  defiance, 
indifferent  to  the  tears  still  wet  on  her  face,  she 
would  execute  apas-seuly  holding  her  gay  gown 
away  from  her  with  both  hands  as  she  pranced. 
"  So  much  for  the  conventions  1 "  said  she,  cock- 
ing her  toe  at  my  mother.  "  I  am  passing 
pretty,"  she  went  on  unabashed,  "  and  I  will 
not  swathe  myself  in  these  black  horrors ; 
my  darling   Harry  would   not  have  liked  it." 


"PUNCHINELLO"  139 

Another  thing  she  always  did  was  to  call  her 
father  Harry.  He  had  never  allowed  her  to 
call  him  "Father,"  owing  to  his  dislike  to 
formalities  and  ordinary  customs.  I  cannot 
help  thinking  he  pushed  his  aversion  somewhat 
far.  I  sympathise  with  his  aversion  to  crape, 
and  original  nomenclature  is  always  good  ;  but 
there  were  departures  in  his  career  at  which  my 
gorge  rises — no  doubt  it  was  his  aversion  to 
custom — but  I  cannot  approve  of  his  utilising 
another  man's  substance  and  later  cheating  him 
of  his  wife.  I  remember  that  at  this  season  I 
conceived  a  highly  moral  ideal,  born,  I  cannot 
doubt,  of  the  late  trickery  to  which  I  had  been 
subjected.  My  past  disillusionment  had  been 
sufficient,  one  would  have  thought,  to  have 
killed  the  very  toughest  romance,  but  for  the 
life  of  me  I  could  not  help  my  thoughts  flying 
to  the  fickle  Marjory,  which  mental  departure 
occasioned  me  great  uneasiness. 

Nancy  had  been  with  us  a  week  when  a  droll 
incident  occurred  relating  to  the  Lady  Agatha, 
which  I  tell  as  exquisitely  illustrating  the 
tempestuous,  changeable  temper  of  my  cousin. 
She  knew,  it  appeared,  her  godmother  fairly 
intimately,  and  had  written  to  apprise  her  of 
her  safe  arrival  at  our  house,  following  in  this 


140  "  PUNCHINELLO  " 

her  father's  wish.  She  had  herself,  so  far  as  I 
could  see,  no  love  for  this  fashionable  dame, 
whom  she  aptly  described  as  "a  whaleboned 
prejudice."  "Dissolved,"  she  cried  one  day  in 
petulant  mood,  "her  component  parts  would 
resolve  themselves  into  lemon  water  ice  and 
east  winds ;  she  is  bitterly  acid,  keen  as  a 
razor.  Ouf ! "  said  Mistress  Nan  with  a  simu- 
lated shiver,  "  I  saw  her  once." 

"  Your  father  appears  to  have  kept  in  touch 
with  her,"  replied  my  mother,  who  was  puzzled 
at  the  amicable  relations  between  two  such 
incongruities  as  mine  uncle  and  his  sister-in-law. 

"  Harry  did  it  for  my  sake,"  said  Nan,  with 
the  shadow  falling  on  her  face  that  mention  of 
her  father  always  brought.  "  She  is  well  placed 
in  the  fashionable  world,  and  he  thought,"  she 
pursued  unabashed,  "  would  give  me  a  taste  of 
gaiety  from  time  to  time.  It  was  for  my  sake 
— always — always  !  "  and  up  she  jumped  with 
the  water  springing  in  her  eyes  and  fled  away. 

"  Poor  child  !"  said  my  mother,  looking  after 
her,  "she  is  too  easily  moved  to  know  happiness 
in  this  world." 

"  Yet  when  she  is  happy,"  I  amended,  "  she 
crowds  felicity  into  an  hour  that  another  would 
spread  over  a  week.     She  has  her  share,  but  she 


"  PUNCHINELLO '»  141 

takes  it  in  greedy  gulps,  thickly  laid  on,  and 
goes  without  in  the  interim." 

"  Poor  child ! "  said  my  mother  again,  and 
went  slowly  towards  the  house  in  search,  I 
knew,  of  Nan. 

Being  left  alone  I  went  and  fetched  my 
violin,  in  which  I  ever  found  congenial  com- 
panionship, and  came  again  into  the  gardens  to 
play,  hoping  to  find  inspiration  in  the  summer 
sounds  and  scents,  and  yet  feeling  in  measure 
antagonistic  towards  them.  For  all  the  garish- 
ness  of  day  I  was  in  somewhat  a  bitter  humour, 
and  the  joyousness  of  the  world  jarred  on  me. 
I  felt,  to  put  it  clear,  the  only  ugly  blot  on 
the  fair  graciousness  around  me.  I  thought  of 
Marjory,  and  in  my  exceeding  depression  could 
not  find  it  in  my  heart  to  reproach  her  for  the 
scurvy  trick  she  had  played  me — what  else 
could  I  expect  ?  No  doubt  my  sojourn  abroad 
would  be  full  of  slights.  How  charming  Mar- 
jory had  been ! — the  traitress.  I  wailed  a 
requiem  to  my  lost  ideal  upon  my  violin  as 
I  thought  of  her — and  Simon,  whom  I  had 
thought  leal  to  the  backbone.  Was  there 
nothing  true  in  life?  Even  that  unhappy 
Nancy  worshipped  a  fair  creation  that  in  no 
wise  resembled  the  father  she  believed  it  repre- 


142  "  PUNCHINELLO  »♦ 

sented.  I  thought  of  her  for  all  my  private 
griefs,  picturing  her  sobbing  within  doors,  turn- 
ing a  deaf  ear  to  my  mother's  comforting,  as 
I  had  seen  her  on  our  first  meeting.  Poor  little 
maid,  I  need  not  have  feared  her  critical  eyes, 
she  had  been  far  too  centred  in  her  own  griefs 
to  think  of  another. 

I  played  on,  revelling  in  my  own  music, 
which  gradually  soothed  my  fretted  nerves. 
It  was  difficult  to  harbour  depression  in  such 
gladsome  surroundings,  and  I  gradually  yielded 
myself  to  their  potent  influences,  and  forgot 
even  my  wretched  personality.  I  slipped,  I 
mind,  from  grave  to  gay,  and  finally  broke  into 
a  Southern  dance.  Music  born  of  foam  and 
wind,  that  flashes  breathlessly  in  its  hurrying 
time  through  a  thousand  moods,  flying  from 
maddest  merriment  to  broken  sombre  notes 
that  hint  of  tragedy. 

As  I  played  I  saw,  as  in  a  vision,  the  sun 
blazing  on  olive-cheeked  men  and  scarlet-ker- 
chiefed women,  dancing  beneath  a  glowing  sky. 
The  clash  of  castanets  rang  out  and  was  an- 
swered by  the  tinkle  of  a  girl's  laugh.  The 
dance  grew  wilder  and  wilder,  the  buckles  on 
the  women's  shoes  flashed  in  the  sunlight.  In 
the  far  distance  a  river  wound  its  way,  lying  like 


"PUNCHINELLO"  143 

a  gigantic  glittering  serpent  in  the  molten  sun- 
shine. The  gaiety  begins  to  fail  a  little,  a 
hint  of  sombreness  is  dulling  the  rejoicing 
music,  and  the  dancing  feet  move,  it  seems  to 
me,  less  lightly.  Another  tone  has  crept  into 
the  music,  the  merriment  is  more  riotous,  the 
passion  is  stronger.  Two  men  glance  angrily 
at  each  other,  and  the  hate  in  their  faces  finds 
expression  in  the  dance.  They  look  across  at 
a  gipsy  girl  with  a  face  like  a  tropical  flower, 
she  sees  the  glance,  her  eyes  grow  frightened 
and  the  music  falls  to  a  pleading  phrase, 
and  still  they  dance,  dance,  while  the  wind 
rollicks  through  the  slender  spiral  cypresses 
and  the  keen  leaves  of  the  aloe  cut  the 
air.  A  sharp  dissonancy — the  white  flash  of 
steel,  the  shrill  shriek  of  a  woman  sounding 
through  the  tumultuous  melody.  Is  it  the 
angry  discord  that  brings  a  red  veil  before  the 
eyes,  or  is  blood  flooding  the  parched  grasses  ? 
Voices  are  clamouring,  and  the  music  falls 
abruptly  to  an  end. 

I  raised  my  violin  again,  eager  to  conjure 
another  fantasy,  and  played  a  tripping  measure 
of  woodland  elves.  I  was  half  through  it  when, 
happening  to  shift  my  position  a  trifle,  I  looked 
across  the  lawns   to  the  great  cedar,  and   dis- 


144  "PUNCHINELLO" 

covered  an  auditor — no  other  than  Mistress 
Nancy,  who  had  so  lately  left  us  in  a  very 
avalanche  of  woe.  She  was  dancing  to  my 
music  in  the  shadows  of  the  tree,  which 
danced  with  her,  making  quaint  patterns  on 
the  dappled  grasses.  I  could  not  but  smile 
at  seeing  her,  she  made  the  most  exquisite 
picture.  Behind  her  the  land  dipped  to  a  great 
hollow,  and  where  it  rose  again  was  gilded  with 
a  gallant  glare  of  gorse,  the  scented  flame  of 
which  stretched  away  for  miles  and  miles, 
making  a  golden  background  for  my  cousin's 
slim  figure.  She  looked  like  a  swaying  flower 
in  her  scarlet  gown,  her  face  flushed  with  eager- 
ness, her  eyes  sparkling  with  excitement ;  and 
I  had  imagined  her  cooped  within  the  house, 
shedding  salt  tears  in  tribute  to  a  reprehensible 
memory.  She  discovered  that  I  had  detected 
her  and  waved  her  hand  in  greeting.  "Quicken, 
quicken ! "  The  light  gay  voice  floated  to 
me,  and  I  obediently  played  quicker,  and  Nan 
danced.  And  in  that  hour,  although  I  knew  it 
not,  she  danced  my  heart  away.  When  it  was 
over  she  came  and  perched  herself  on  the  seat 
beside  me,  and  looked  at  me  with  something  in 
her  face  that  I  had  never  seen  before — had  she 
been  any  one  but  herself,  I  should  have  termed 


"  PUNCHINELLO  "  145 

it  respect.  "  It  is  very  wonderful,"  she  said,  in 
an  awestruck  tone ;  "  and  to  think  it  is  only  a 
piece  of  wood  and  some  catgut,"  and  she  cast  a 
glance  at  my  beloved  fiddle. 

"  It  is  a  Stradivarius,"  said  I,  a  shade  warmly. 

"A  piece  of  wood  and  some  catgut,"  she 
repeated  unabashed.  I  shrugged  my  shoulders, 
having  learnt  at  a  painful  expense  something 
of  the  sex,  and  made  no  answer.  In  no  wise 
disconcerted  she  settled  herself  more  comfort- 
ably on  the  bench  and  crossed  her  feet,  casting 
an  admiring  glance  at  her  twinkling  buckles. 
"  I  dance  well  ? "  she  went  on  with  a  note  of 
interrogation  in  her  voice. 

"  Fairly,"  said  I,  mindful  of  her  past  slight  to 
my  Stradivarius  (a  thing  of  wood  and  catgut 
indeed !). 

"Well?"  repeated  she  firmly. 

"Fairly,"  said  I. 

"Well,  well,"  she  enunciated  in  a  shrill 
crescendo,  "well,  do  you  hear?"  The  storm 
signals  were  beginning  to  hang  out,  and  I 
capitulated. 

"Oh,  well  then,"  I  agreed  peevishly;  "it  seems 
a  pity  to  mar  the  harmony  of  the  hour  for  such 
a  tawdry  question." 

She,    having    gained    her    point,    made    no 

K 


146  "PUNCHINELLO" 

response,  and  then  broke  out  suddenly,  flinging 
her  arms  above  her  head,  "  Oh,  to  play  like 
that!  I  would  give  anything  to  be  you, 
Anthony." 

"  To  be  me,"  I  echoed,  in  truth  too  amazed 
to  say  more.  To  hear  this  fair  young  creature 
envying  me  was  indeed  enough  to  send  the 
steadiest  brain  rocking.     "  Why  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  For  being  such  a  magician,"  she  said  im- 
patiently. "You  desire  an  emotion — evoke  it 
— and  luxuriate  in  it.  To  be  grave  or  gay, 
frivolous  or  earnest,  and  all  by  touching  that 
— er — Stradivarius,"  she  graciously  concluded. 

"  You  envy  me  ? "  I  asked  again,  and  began 
to  laugh,  "  I— I— Punchinello." 

"  Punchinello  ?  "  asked  she  curiously,  all  agog 

with    interest ;    "  who  —  who "    she    began 

stammering,  her  words  failing  her. 

"  It  was  an  unkind  baptism,"  I  said,  and  then 
in  a  few  words  I  sketched  the  story  of  that 
afternoon,  and  as  I  told  my  tale  with  half- 
averted  face  her  hand  stole  into  mine,  but  she 
said  never  a  word.  Even  when  I  had  finished 
there  was  silence,  and  then  with  the  pretty 
grace  that  was  so  natural  to  her  she  put  her 
lips  to  my  cheek,  but  still  she  did  not  speak. 

"  It  is  a  cruel  name,"  I  said. 


"PUNCHINELLO"  147 

"  How  he  could ! "  she  said  in  a  little  gasp. 

"  I  shall  never  forget  it,"  I  said  mournfully, 
watching  her.     I  did  so  want  another  kiss. 

"Children  are  so  cruel,"  she  said  senten- 
tiously. 

"  It  is  an  awful  name." 

"  You  never  hear  it  now  ? "  said  she  with 
acute  reason. 

"  But  yes,"  I  explained  eagerly  ;  "  the  village 
lads  when  overheated  with  wine  call  it  after 
me. 

"  Oh,  poor,  poor  Tony  !  "  She  took  my  hand 
again,  but  there  was  no  kiss.  Now  at  this 
moment  I  was  seized  with  a  curious  fancy,  no 
more,  no  less,  than  to  hear  her  call  me  by  my 
nickname.  If  her  pretty  lips  once  uttered  it, 
I  felt  the  sting  would  be  in  a  measure  gone. 

"Call  me  once  by  that  name,"  I  said  abruptly, 
"and  I  shall  never  mind  it  again." 

"  No,"  said  she,  tightening  her  lips. 

"  Humour  me,  Nan,"  I  prayed ;  "  say  *  Punchi- 
nello '  just  once." 

She  wriggled  a  little,  then  she  put  her  lips  to 
my  ear.  "  Punchinello,"  said  she,  very  softly. 
"  And  now  play  to  me  again  and  I  will  dance. 
The  day  is  dying — see  the  crimson  west — we 
waste  it.     I  should  love   never  to  sit  still,  but 


148  "PUNCHINELLO" 

to  dance  to  your  fiddling  all  day  long.  Play, 
Anthony."  She  stood  up  and  whirled  her 
scarlet  skirts.  "  How  beautiful  it  is  to  be 
alive !  See  the  gorse,"  she  cried.  "  I  under- 
stand Linnaeus  so  well — who  fell  on  his  knees 
when  he  saw  the  sheets  of  gold.  Oh,  Anthony, 
how  good  a  thing  it  is,  come  weal  or  woe,  to  be 
alive  !     Play  !  "  she  said  imperatively. 

"  Call  me  Punchinello,  not  in  a  whisper,  but 
out  loud,"  I  said  sulkily.  Moved  by  her  own 
uttering  of  this  hideous  appellation,  she  would 
surely  kiss  me  again. 

"  Are  you  going  to  play,  or  are  you  not  ? " 
she  returned  in  a  rising  tantrum. 

"  Call  me  Punchinello,"  I  responded  stolidly. 

"  Play  first,  and,  if  it  is  good  enough,  I  will 
humour  your  whim,"  said  she  loftily.  "Talk 
of  women's  fancies  !  Play  that  first  dance,  it 
warms  the  blood  like  new  wine."  And  she 
rushed  back  to  her  old  place  in  the  shadows, 
and  I  obediently  played. 

I  shall  never  forget  her — the  flying  skirts, 
the  clustering  curls,  flecked  here  and  there  with 
gold  where  the  sun  pierced  the  foliage  over- 
head. She  danced  till  she  was  forced  to  pause 
for  dearth  of  breath,  and  then,  all  panting,  she 
clapped  her  hands,  and  tossed  ipe  a  kiss  on 


"PUNCHINELLO"  149 

her  finger-tips  (I  would  rather  have  had  it 
otherwise),  and  shouted,  "  Bravo,  bravo,  Punch- 
inello ! "  I  gazed  at  her  as  she  sank  on  the 
ground,  looking,  in  the  folds  of  her  scarlet 
gown,  like  some  monstrous  poppy,  and  won- 
dered at  her  beauty. 

"Come  here,"  she  called  across  the  low 
grasses  ;  "  I  cannot  come  to  you,  I  am  fairly 
spent." 

I  rose,  and  was  half  way  to  her,  when  I  spied 
my  mother  issuing  from  the  house,  followed  by 
a  stranger.  She  was  apparently  a  lady  of 
fashion,  being  pranked  out  in  the  costliest 
raiment,  and  rustling,  as  she  stepped  gingerly 
on  her  high  heels,  with  the  most  luxurious 
rustle.  Nan,  too,  had  noticed  their  coming,  as  I 
detected  by  certain  minor  symptoms.  She  put 
one  hand  to  her  head  in  ineffectual  endeavour 
to  set  in  order  her  fluffy,  wind-blown  curls,  with 
the  other  she  pulled  at  her  gown.  "  It  is  the 
Lady  Agatha,"  she  whispered  with  the  haugh- 
tiest smile.  "  Oh,  Tony,  'ware  ! "  I  looked 
round  for  a  means  of  escape ;  but  it  was  too 
late,  the  ladies  were  upon  us. 

Nancy  rose  from  her  feet,  and  went  forward 
to  meet  her  godmother,  and  then  happened  the 
cruellest    thing.     She   went    forward   ^yith   the 


150  "PUNCHINELLO" 

light  in  her  eyes  and  the  rosy  colour  on  her 
cheeks  brought  by  her  late  exercise,  a  smile  of 
greeting  on  her  lips.  The  Lady  Agatha  fell 
back  a  step  and  stopped,  as  though  paralyzed  by 
horror.  "  And  your  father  hardly  cold  in  his 
grave ! "  said  she,  with  stern  eyes  on  Nan. 
"  Have  you  no  heart  ?  Whatever  his  faults, 
he  loved  you  well."  It  takes  a  woman  to  do 
a  thing  like  that.  The  pretty  pinkness  fled 
from  my  cousin's  cheeks,  she  turned  white  to 
the  very  mouth,  the  great  tears  splashed  down 
her  face,  and  with  a  piteous  cry  of  "  Harry  ! 
Harry!"  she  turned  and  ran  swiftly  from  us. 
I  have  seen  a  rose  sunning  itself  in  its  ex- 
quisiteness  suddenly  broken  down  and  battered 
out  of  all  beauty  by  an  angry  summer  shower, 
and  I  could  not  but  think  of  it  when  I  saw 
Nancy's  face  lose  all  its  grace  and  gladness  in 
one  swift  rain  of  tears.  The  heartless  old 
harridan  !  I  could  have  brained  her  where  she 
stood. 

Lady  Agatha  was  in  no  wise  disturbed  by 
the  disastrous  effects  of  her  observation.  "That 
scarlet  frock — disgraceful !  disgraceful !  "  she 
muttered.  "  Your  son  ? "  she  said  sharply  to 
my  mother.  "  I  heard  that  he  was  afflicted. 
You  suffer  ?  "  she  said,  turning  to  me. 


"PUNCHINELLO"  151 

"  No,"  returned  I  with  suavity  to  match  her 
own.  I  could  have  sworn  she  looked  a  trifle 
disappointed. 

"You  will,"  she  went  on,  wagging  her  head 
with  a  most  portentous  gravity.  "  They  always 
do."  She  flung  this  cheery  dictum  at  my 
mother.  Having  settled  this  matter  to  her 
satisfaction,  she  expressed  a  wish  to  be  seated. 
"  I  see  a  chair  yonder."  She  waved  towards  a 
garden  seat  that  stood  a  hundred  feet  or  so 
distant.  "  Are  you  strong  enough  to  carry  it  ?  " 
she  said. 

"  No,"  said  I.  But  I  caught  my  mother's 
eyes,  and  went  and  fetched  it.  To  my  horror, 
when  I  came  back  she  was  fingering  my  violin. 

"  A  nice  amusement  for  you,"  said  she 
patronizingly,  as  I  took  it  from  her.  "  I  am 
musical  myself — I  sing." 

"  You  what  ?  "  I  asked,  stupefied  out  of  all 
courtesy. 

"  Sing  to  the  guitar,"  she  explained,  noting 
nothing.     "  I  have  a  passion  for  Courtain." 

Now  Courtain's  songs  I  knew  well.  They 
are  the  sweetest,  lightest  nothings,  telling  of 
love  and  moonshine,  roses  and  blue  eyes — 
things  blown  together,  and  by  their  very 
simplicity  requiring  the  greatest  skill  and  the 


152  "PUNCHINELLO" 

freshest  voices.  Now,  to  think  of  this  dame 
who  had  left  sixty  well  behind,  and  spoke  with 
the  cracked  notes  of  age,  singing  these  things 
amused  me  immensely.  "  I  should  love  to  hear 
you,"  I  said  with  the  greatest  truth. 

"  I  have  not  my  guitar,"  she  said  regretfully. 
"  Some  other  time." 

"  I  will  improvise  you  an  accompaniment," 
I  said  obligingly. 

She  was  on  the  verge  of  yielding  when  that 
dear  nuisance,  my  mother,  who  could  never 
bear  to  see  aught  put  to  shame,  intervened. 

"  You  wanted  to  speak  to  me  concerning 
Nan ;  and  she,  too,  must  be  consulted. 
Some  other  time,"  she  continued  hurriedly. 
"  Go  and  find  Nan,"  she  said  to  me. 

"Just  a  verse."  I  loitered,  unwilling  to  be 
defrauded  of  my  mischief 

"  It  is  indeed  late.  Lady  Agatha,"  said  my 
mother  feverishly.  "  The  drive  back  to  your 
friends  is  long  ;  it  grows  chill  in  the  evenings. 
Go,  Anthony,  and  find  Nancy,"  she  finished  in 
a  most  commanding  voice;  and,  having  no 
choice,  I  took  my  violin  and  went,  the  Lady 
Agatha  looking  regretfully  after  me. 

"Some  other  time.  Master  Anthony,"  she 
said  consolingly,  "  I  shall  be  most  happy." 


"PUNCHINELLO"  153 

I  went  in  search  of  Nan,  calling  her  name 
through  the  ground,  and  receiving  nothing  in 
return  but  the  echo  of  my  shout.  She  had 
evidently  sought  the  shelter  of  the  house,  and 
thither  I  betook  myself,  guessing  she  had  taken 
refuge  in  her  own  room.  I  knocked  at  the  door 
with  something  of  trembling,  fearing  a  scene. 
Never  in  my  life  have  I  conquered  my  inability 
to  witness  a  woman's  tears.  Well,  I  knocked 
and  knocked,  but  received  no  answer,  but  it 
seemed  to  me  that  there  was  some  one  in  the 
room. 

"Nancy,"  I  said,  and  rattled  the  handle. 
Now  I  heard  a  distinct  splash,  but  never  a 
word.  "  Nancy,"  I  said  again.  It  seemed  to 
me  impossible  to  enter  a  lady's  bedchamber 
without  permission,  so  I  rattled  the  handle 
some  good  ten  minutes,  saying  "  Nan  !"  at  in- 
tervals, standing  first  on  one  leg,  then  on 
another,  for  very  weariness.  At  last,  my 
patience  exhausted,  I  gave  a  most  furious 
shake  to  the  handle.  I  knocked  a  violent 
rat-a-tat-tat  on  the  door  with  my  disengaged 
hand,  and  again  I  said  "  Nancy,"  with  a  some* 
what  marked  emphasis. 

This  time  a  startled  voice,  feigning  astonish- 
ment, bade  me  enter. 


154  "  PUNCHINELLO  " 

"Is  that  you,  Anthony ? "  said  she. 

"It  is,"  I  returned  a  little  shortly,  "still 
me. 

"What  do  you  want?"  she  snapped  with 
much  asperity. 

"  You."  I  could  not  well  see  her  face  owing 
to  her  back  being  turned  straightly  to  the  light, 
but  I  fancied  I  could  detect  marked  signs  of 
her  recent  tears.  "  At  least,"  I  amended,  "  they 
want  you." 

"  Go  and  tell  them  that  they  may  want  and 
want,  but  that  I  will  never  come,"  she  returned 
with  a  toss  of  the  head. 

"  It  seems  a  pity  to  offend  the  Lady  Agatha," 
I  began  sensibly. 

"  Go  away,  if  that  is  all  you  have  come  to 
say,"  she  screamed. 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  I  replied,  and  turned 
to  the  door. 

"  Hi !  wait  a  minute !  "  she  sent  after  me  in  a 
moment.  "  Does  Lady  Agatha  really  want 
me  ?  "  she  inquired. 

"  Well,  it  was  like  this,"  I  began,  and  I  told 
her  the  story  of  her  aunt's  desire  to  show  off 
her  singing,  while  she  shrieked  with  delight  at 
my  recital,  forgetting  her  late  griefs. 

"  I  have  heard  her  myself,"  she  said,  shaking 


"PUNCHINELLO"  I55 

with  laughter,  "trilling  most  languorously  of 
the  moonshine  and  of  love  in  her  cracked  old 
voice,  strumming  fervently  on  a  gay  beribboned 
guitar  the  while " ;  and  so  she  mocked  and 
laughed,  while  I  watched  her,  marvelling  at  her 
easy  change  from  grave  to  gay  and  back  again. 
The  afternoon  sped  on  ;  we  forgot  my  mother's 
mandate,  and  sat  laughing  and  joking  like  two 
children,  ignoring  the  flying  minutes. 

At  last  my  mother,  followed  by  Cecily, 
appeared,  simulating  vexation  at  Nan's  non- 
appearance, and  all  delight  at  the  departure 
of  her  guest.  "  She  has  returned  to  Despard 
Manor :  she  is  spending  a  few  weeks  there 
and  drove  over  in  her  coach,  thinking  to  take 
us  all  by  surprise " 

"Which  she  did,"  concluded  Mistress  Nan 
regretfully. 

"  Part  of  next  year  she  hopes  you  will  spend 
with  her,"  went  on  my  mother,  watching  my 
cousin.     "  She  is  gay — very  gay,  she  tells  me." 

"  I  love  routs  and  balls,"  said  Nan  ingenu- 
ously, "  but  Milady  !  ugh  !  "  and  she  flourished 
round  the  room,  holding  out  the  skirts  of  her 
gay  gown,  singing  some  ridiculous  roundelay 
the  while,  my  mother  regarding  her  with 
worried  eyes. 


156  "PUNCHINELLO" 

"  Are  you  never  serious,  Nan  ? "  she  said  at 
last. 

"  I  serious  ?  "  She  stopped  short  in  her  pranc- 
ing. "  I  don't  know.  Ask  Anthony  there, 
looking  wise  as  a  boiled  owl — or  Cecily,  my 
pink  and  placid  Cecily " ;  and,  without  waiting 
for  an  answer,  she  whirled  herself  out  of  the 
room,  and  two  minutes  later  I  saw  the  red 
cotton  of  her  gown  glowing  in  the  dusky 
twilight  that  had  gathered  on  the  gardens. 

"  I  don't  know  what  we  are  all  doing  in 
Nancy's  bedchamber,"  said  my  mother,  sud- 
denly waking  from  a  reverie.  "  That  child  has 
a  genius  for  the  upsetting  of  all  law  and  order. 
What  are  you  doing  here,  Tony  ?  " 

"  You  sent  me,"  I  explained,  making  for  the 
door  ;  but  I  received  no  answer,  she  astutely 
feigning  deafness. 

And  so  closed  the  incident  of  the  Lady 
Agatha's  introduction  to  our  humble  home. 


IX 


THE  date  fixed  for  my  return  to  London 
was  rapidly  approaching,  and  in  the 
excitement  of  my  impending  journey  my  cousin 
faded  in  measure  to  the  background  of  my 
interests.  She  accepted  this  unflattering  posi- 
tion with  equanimity,  and  affected  a  respect- 
ful attitude  towards  me  and  my  future  career, 
as  she  emphatically  termed  it,  that  was  not  in- 
frequently leavened  by  unexpected  and  pungent 
sallies  at  my  expense.  But  I  bore  her  tricks 
with  exemplary  fortitude  and  calmly  suffered 
her  impertinences,  knowing  that  she  loved  no- 
thing better  than  to  tempt  me  to  reprisals  in 
speech.  "  In  a  tournament  of  tongues  a  woman 
is  invariably  victor,"  she  placidly  explained  to 
me  one  day  when  she  had  taunted  me  to  futile 
reply.  "You  had  best  go  and  grapple  with 
your  chromatics  and  harmonics";  and  so  she 
would  tease  until  I  departed  huffily,  vowing  to 
have  speech  with  her  no  more.     But  though  I 

157 


158  ''  PUNCHINELLO  " 

was  indeed  fired  with  ambitions,  I  could  not 
oust  her  from  my  thoughts,  and  knew  that  my 
mind  dwelt  on  her  more  than  was  wise.  I 
spent  much  of  my  time  at  this  period  discussing 
with  Ooterwint  the  onerous  duties  of  the  post 
that  awaited  me,  magnifying  my  responsibilities 
with  all  the  solemn  conceit  of  youth.  He  took, 
or  as  my  maturer  judgment  holds,  affected  to 
take,  me  very  seriously,  and  we  would  spend 
hours  discussing  the  relative  influences  of  nation- 
ality on  art,  he  giving  full  honour  to  the  aptness 
of  the  Italians  for  grace  and  melody,  while  ap- 
plauding the  more  intellectual  character  ot 
Teutonic  art.  With  a  Job-like  patience  he 
would  soften  the  generous  effusions  of  my  muse. 
Handel  I  copied  most  artlessly,  striving  not  only 
to  attain  his  power  of  melody,  but  also  following 
devoutly  in  his  steps  as  regarded  realistic  ex- 
pression. If  he  conveyed  the  rolling  of  the  sea, 
the  buzzing  of  flies — why  not  I  ?  He  laced  his 
works  with  phrases  from  Corelli,  Scarlatti  and 
Carissimi.  I  ingenuously  followed  his  excellent 
example,  a  substantial  difference  being  that  he 
adopted  them  so  gracefully  that  the  most  foreign 
excerpts  sat  bravely  in  his  works  as  in  an  ex- 
quisite setting,  while  I,  having  dug  out  what  I 
wanted,  planted  it  carelessly,  studding  my  com- 


"  PUNCHINELLO '  159 

positions  with  flowers  that  bloomed  unhappily 
in  an  uncouth  soil. 

When  at  last  I  found  myself  in  Town,  it 
seemed  as  if  Fate  was  anxious  to  atone  for  the 
kicks  and  blows  of  which  she  had  been  so  lavish 
in  the  past  by  a  generous  lavishment  of  good 
fortune  in  the  present.  I  began  to  taste  the 
sweets  of  success,  and  encouraged  by  the  favour- 
able reception  accorded  to  a  Jubilate  which  I 
wrote  at  this  time,  flung  myself  into  a  very 
furore  of  work,  seeing  before  me  a  glittering 
road  to  fame. 

I  would  not  linger  on  this  time,  which  indeed 
holds  little  of  my  intimate  life,  yet  I  loved  it 
well.  I  speedily  found  myself  launched  into  a 
gay  vortex  of  young  men,  mostly  artists  and 
musicians,  with  a  sprinkling  of  writers — who, 
despising  the  milder  forms  of  enjoyment,  re- 
garded life  as  a  barbaric  entertainment,  and 
were  for  ever  crying :  "  Enjoy,  enjoy  ! "  Yet 
they  were  no  sluggards,  but  bravely  burned  the 
candle  at  both  ends,  being  both  hard  workers 
and  hard  pleasurers  and  avid  to  extract  the 
uttermost  from  life.  In  later  times  they  termed 
such  Bohemians,  and  they  were,  I  discovered, 
commonly  identified  by  laxity  of  morals  and  an 
aversion  to  cleanliness  ;  but  it  would  ill  become 


i6o  "PUNCfflNELLO" 

me  to  reflect  unkindly  on  this  company,  for  I 
discovered  the  kindest  hearts  among  them, 
which  the  owners  eternally  struggled  to  conceal 
under  a  show  of  bravado,  and  also,  I  must 
admit,  the  foolishest  heads.  These  not  so  much 
among  the  set  themselves  as  among  the  gay 
young  blades  of  fashion  with  which  some  were 
intimate,  and  who  held  it  a  principal  tenet  in 
their  code  of  honour  to  be  for  ever  brawling. 

Some  months  ago,  scanning  an  old  file  of 
Spectators^  I  ran  against  a  paragraph  which 
truly  expresses  the  gospel  of  these  lads :  "  He 
never  went  to  bed  before  two  o'clock  in  the 
morning  because  he  would  not  be  a  quiet 
fellow,  and  was  every  now  and  then  knocked 
down  by  a  constable  to  signalise  his  vivacity. 
He  was  initiated  into  many  clubs  before  he  was 
twenty-one,  and  so  improved  in  them  his  natural 
gaiety  of  temper  that  you  might  frequently  trace 
him  to  his  lodgings  by  a  range  of  broken  win- 
dows and  other  the  like  monuments  of  wit  and 
gallantry.  To  be  short,  after  having  fully  estab- 
lished his  reputation  of  being  a  very  agreeable 
rake,  he  died  of  old  age  at  twenty-five."  There 
it  lies,  a  most  exact  defining  of  this  wondrous 
creed,  in  faithfulness  to  which  many  feather- 
patecj  lads  sacrifice  their  health.    There  w^s  one 


"PUNCHINELLO"  i6i 

I  mind  in  whose  veins  ran  a  strain  of  Gallic 
blood,  for  whom  I  felt  something  of  love.  He 
was  the  prettiest  lad,  with  a  face  like  a  girl,  and 
professed  the  ethics  of  a  Don  Juan.  Listening 
to  his  talk  was  as  seeing  worms  crawl  from  out 
the  heart  of  a  rose,  so  terribly  incongruously  did 
his  lewd  words  steal  out  of  his  innocent-seeming 
lips.  He  was  a  poet,  and  as  yet  unlaurelled. 
According  to  his  own  showing,  the  world  was  all 
to  blame  for  its  tardy  recognition  of  his  merits, 
but  he  endured  no  uneasiness  as  to  the  ultimate 
tribute.  Being  a  youth  of  lively  parts,  he  was 
exceedingly  partial  to  feminine  society,  and  not 
over-fastidious  as  to  the  ethics  of  the  damsel 
who  served  to  while  away  the  hour.  "  Women 
are  like  flowers,"  he  sneered  in  the  loose  talk 
which  I  hated — "when  faded,  fit  only  to  be 
tossed  away.  Dear  loves,  I  have  had  many  ; 
see  here !  *'  And  he  would  show  me  locks 
of  hair  and  faded  blossoms  by  the  gross,  the 
sketched  head  of  a  celebrated  courtesan,  at 
which  he  looked  with  much  satisfaction.  "I 
share  her  favours  with  one  who  sits  in  a  high 
place,"  he  said  with  a  horrid  laugh  ;  and  so  he 
would  talk,  all  his  speech  informed  with  the 
dreary  negation  of  his  creed  that  held  nil  both 
virtue  in  woman   and   honour  in   man;  and  I 


i62  "PUNCHINELLO" 

would  look  at  him  in  wonder,  for  always  it 
seemed  to  me  that  he  was  fretted  to  madness 
by  a  fever  of  unrest,  and  struggled  to  drown 
despair  in  dissipation.  I  individualise  him  from 
out  the  general  herd  because  he  stands  among 
my  memories  a  pathetic  personality  for  all  his 
gross  living  and  grosser  talk,  and  when  the  end 
came  it  was  proved  that  my  intuitions  had  not 
proved  me  false.  He  met  his  death  in  a  duel 
fought  with  a  man  with  whom  he  had  picked  a 
quarrel  in  a  coffee  house,  because  of  some 
fancied  insult  when  both  were  hot  with  wine. 

When  he  lay  a-dying  he  sent  for  me,  and  I 
went  in  great  fear  of  what  he  would  be  suffering 
at  the  thought  of  death — he  who  had  been  so 
piteously  in  love  with  life.  But  he  met  me  with 
the  gay  philosophy  that  had  ever  characterised 
him,  saying  only :  "  It  is  written,"  and  essaying 
even,  as  he  lay  bandaged  in  his  bed,  a  weak 
shrug  of  shoulder.  But  at  the  last  he  gave  his 
whole  life  the  lie,  for  as  I  sat  beside  him,  my 
heart  sick  with  pity  at  sight  of  the  gray  anguish 
written  in  his  face  that  so  denied  its  simulated 
indifference  he  fell  to  fingering  something  hang- 
ing round  his  neck  by  a  chain,  and  I  saw  the 
tense  lines  of  his  features  relax  and  quiver. 
*  Slip  it  from  the  chain,"  he  prayed  weakly,  and 


"PUNCHINELLO"  163 

I  undid  the  little  heart-shaped  locket  and  put  it 
in  his  hands,  where  the  feeble  fingers  plucked  at 
it,  fighting  the  stubborn  clasp.  I  read  the  desire 
in  his  face  and  undid  the  catch,  and  the  hinge 
slipped  back,  showing  the  fair,  sedate  face  of  a 
maid  of  some  twenty  years.  "  I  loved  her,"  he 
said  with  a  little  laugh  that  mocked  a  sob, 
"but  she  was  for  the  good  God.  .  .  .  My 
dear — my  dear!"  and  he  fell  to  crying  in  his 
great  weakness.  "She  was  my  wife  a  week," 
he  wept.  "Jess — my  pretty  Jess!  I  wanted  to 
forget  her,  and  now  I  shall  never  see  her  more 
— so  base  am  I."  The  room  was  littered  with 
evidence  of  his  late  libertinage,  and  now  in  the 
supreme  hour  his  mind,  as  if  slipped  from  a 
leash,  was  back  with  the  only  pure  love  he 
had  ever  known.  "Jess — Jess,"  he  cried,  ever 
weaker,  till  death  stilled  his  crying,  and  he  slept 
with  cold  lips  pressed  to  the  smiling  miniature. 

When  all  was  finished,  I  put  the  little  gold 
piece  on  his  breast  and  went  home  wondering. 
None  of  us  had  ever  known  of  his  past  marriage. 
He  had  cheated  us  all,  even  himself,  until  the 
eleventh  hour,  and  then  the  ghost  of  the  past 
rose  up,  and  the  present  was  as  nothing.  To 
escape  the  smart  of  the  intolerable  memory,  he 
had  flung  himself  into  a  whirl  of  feverish  dissi- 


i64  "PUNCHINELLO" 

pation,  wronging  the  very  memory  upon  which 
he  had  cried  to  help  him  through  the  Valley 
of  Shadows.  I  cannot  think  he  cried  vainly. 
There  was  a  peace  on  his  face  when  all  was 
over  that  it  had  never  known  in  life.  Who 
shall  say?  Did  she  leave  Christ's  choirs  and 
stand  by  him  at  the  last  for  love  of  the  old 
days?  "Jess!" — the  last  cry  had  rung  jubi- 
lant as  if  a  Presence  from  the  Spirit  Land 
had  waited  on  him.  Infinite  is  God's  clemency, 
say  the  priests.  Infinite  is  woman's  love,  cry 
the  generations  of  all  time.  When  the  wings 
of  Azrael  flutter  over  me,  will  you  answer, 
sweetheart,  or  shall  I  cry  in  vain? 

For  all  my  work  and  multitudinous  interests, 
my  mind  was  wont  to  stray  to  my  home,  and 
I  was  always  eager  to  welcome  my  mother's 
letters.  She  wrote  to  me  constantly,  but  her 
epistles  had  a  fault  of  wasting  space  on  me  and 
my  doings,  in  place  of  narrating  the  history  of 
her  days.  For  all  her  meagre  words  I  gathered 
that  Mistress  Nancy  had  wound  herself  into  my 
mother's  heart,  although  she  rarely  mentioned 
her  name  without  deploring  the  vagaries  of  her 
moods.  My  mother  had  a  prejudice  in  favour 
of  convention,  especially  regarding  maids,  and 
Nan  flung  her  cap,  to  clumsily  translate,  over 


"PUNCHINELLO"  165 

the  windmills  many  times  a  day.  But  the 
weeks  slipped  past,  and  I  seemed  to  read  a 
hint  of  illness  between  the  lines.  '*  I  am  feeling 
stronger,"  she  wrote;  "this  autumn  briskness 
braces  me  finely."  This  sentence  haunted  me, 
arguing,  as  it  did,  a  past  weakness  ;  but  when  I 
inquired  relating  it  I  received  a  most  mirthful 
epistle  for  my  pains,  in  which  she  told  me  she 
was  luxuriating  in  the  rosiest  health.  "  I  would 
come  to  Town  to  prove  it,"  she  wrote,  "  did  I 
not  dread  the  long  journey,"  etc.,  etc.,  with  gay 
gibes  at  my  womanish  faddishness  which  fancied 
a  wasting  distemper  at  the  slightest  excuse. 

Now  I,  being  but  a  man,  read  and  believed, 
although  I  took  an  opportunity  that  shortly 
offered  itself  of  posting  to  Chilwaithe.  I  spent 
a  week  in  my  home,  but  could  detect  nothing 
amiss  in  my  mother,  save  that  she  was  slighter 
than  of  yore,  and  that  her  eyes  burnt  with  a 
new  fire — for  the  rest  she  seemed  well  enough. 
Mistress  Nancy  had  wondrously  developed ; 
she  was  prettier  than  ever,  but  had  a  new 
manner,  having  entirely  lost  the  childish  air  that 
had  characterised  her,  and  treated  me  with  a 
civil  aloofness.  Her  nascent  modishness  was 
explained  when  I  learned  that  she  intended  to 
spend  the  following  season  in  Town  with  the 


i66  "  PUNCHINELLO  " 

Lady  Agatha,  who  boasted  the  key  to  the 
inmost  sanctuaries  of  fashion.  She  made  some- 
thing of  a  grimace  when  she  vouchsafed  me  this 
information,  her  love  for  her  godmother  having 
apparently  in  no  wise  increased,  but  seemed 
pleased  at  the  thought  of  change  and,  above 
all,  of  peacocking  in  the  Mall. 


I  RETURNED  to  Town  with  my  head  full  of 
my  cousin.  ,  The  past  image  I  had  enter- 
tained of  her  was  wholly  obscured  by  this  later 
development,  for  the  Nan  I  had  known  was  gone 
and  a  maid  waiting  on  womanhood  was  in  her 
place.  She  had  developed  a  curious  shyness 
which  jarred  strangely  with  what  I  remembered 
of  her  past  ease.  There  was  a  truce  to  all  im- 
pertinence, and  we  mutually  showed  each  other 
an  extreme  courtesy  that  bordered  on  formality 
— no  more  dancing  al  fresco  !  But  I  loved  her 
the  more  for  her  difficult  primness,  and  none  the 
less  that  I  knew  she  could  never  be  mine. 

In  the  ceaseless  weighing  and  measuring  of 
past  occasions  that  torments  my  restless  brain, 
my  fancy  is  eternally  endeavouring  to  body 
forth  what  would  have  come  to  me  in  life  had  I 
by  some  fortuitous  freak  of  fortune  been  de- 
barred for  fulfilling  my  duties  at  St  Mary's 
Church  one  Sunday  evening,  some  six  weeks 
after  my  return  to  Town,     Would  I  have  wedded 


167 


i68  "  PUNCHINELLO  " 

Nan  and  escaped  the  ugly  influence  that 
even  as  a  child  had  so  pitilessly  marred  my 
life  ?  Would  she  be  near  me  now  ?  I  cry 
aloud  in  fruitless  questioning,  though  all  the 
while  aware  that  no  answer  can  ever  reach 
me,  and  that  even  if  it  could,  my  life  lies  past 
patching.  I  am  no  believer  in  premonitions, 
dreams,  and  the  follies  with  which  old  wives 
would  fain  claim  powers  of  divination,  yet  I 
maintain  that  I  woke  the  morning  of  the  day  on 
which  Fate  waylaid  me  with  such  unkindly  in- 
tent, with  a  depressing  prescience  of  evil.  I 
ascribed  it  at  the  time  to  my  generous  potations 
of  the  night  before,  for  I  had  enjoyed  a  festive 
end  to  my  day  of  toil  at  the  "  Cheshire  Cheese  " 
in  Russell  Street,  and,  excited  by  the  gay  ex- 
amples around  me,  had  mixed  my  liquors  some- 
what freely. 

On  the  night  to  which  I  refer  a  wave  of  de- 
votion had  apparently  actuated  half  London  to 
its  undoing,  or  possibly  the  expected  advent  of 
a  renowned  preacher  was  the  cause  of  the 
serried  ranks  of  worshippers  that  I  noticed  as  I 
came  up  the  aisle.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  the 
church  was  filled  to  the  uttermost  limit,  an  un- 
usual number  of  men  preponderating  in  the 
assembly.     The  service  was   half  way  through 


"PUNCHINELLO"  169 

when  I  imagined  that  I  detected  a  faint  smell  of 
burning ;  it  was  so  slight  that  for  a  moment  I 
imagined  myself  mistaken,  but  in  the  passing 
of  an  instant  I  sniffed  it  stronger  and  rose  from 
my  knees  intending  to  tell  the  officiating  priest 
that  the  people  be  warned  and  advised  to  leave 
the  church  quietly,  without  panic.  But  even  as 
I  moved  a  woman's  voice,  sharp  with  fear,  clave 
across  the  parson's  drone,  crying,  "  Fire  !  "  and 
before  the  note  of  her  warning  had  died  to 
silence  there  ensued  a  hideous  stampede.  Men, 
women  and  children  rushed  helter-skelter  to  the 
door,  and  as  they  rushed  a  blue  tongue  of  flame 
crept  from  behind  the  altar  and  a  monstrous 
volume  of  smoke  belched  forth.  Then  hap- 
pened a  scene,  the  bare  remembrance  of  which 
nauseates  me  ;  the  weak  were  trampled  under- 
foot by  the  strong,  and  the  high-pitched  shrieks 
of  women  and  children  mingled  with  the  curses 
of  men,  while  with  a  celerity  I  had  hardly 
deemed  possible  the  fire  gained  ground,  leaping 
in  scarlet  forks  through  the  heavy  clouds  of 
smoke.  The  crackling  of  wood  added  to  the 
turmoil,  and  I  mind  noting  a  loosened  beam  and 
striving  to  drag  a  woman  from  beneath  it,  but 
she  was  mad  with  fear  and  waited  shrieking  for 
her  husband  till  the  beam  crashed  down  on  to 


170  "  PUNCHINELLO  '* 

her  head,  and  she  lay  in  a  crimson  pool  of  blood 
with  the  gray  matter  of  her  brain  oozing  from 
out  the  cracked  skull.  God !  Such  a  scene 
might  Dante  have  haply  depicted  at  the  very 
heart  of  hell.  Now  and  again  the  bewildered 
sob  of  a  babe  would  sound,  and  once  I 
heard  a  shrill  cry  of  "Mother,  I  burn,"  fol- 
lowed by  a  scream ;  and  that  voice  was  heard 
no  more.  Myself,  I  made  a  fight  for  life, 
though  hardly  hoping  to  escape.  I  was  beaten 
back  at  every  step  and  a  deadly  faintness  began 
to  grow  on  me,  numbing  my  endeavour,  while 
the  stink  of  burning  flesh  filled  me  with  a 
deadly  sickness,  and  being  both  undersized  and 
weakly  I  had  hardly  a  chance  where  many 
stronger  than  I  lay  stark  and  suffocated.  I  had 
indeed  given  up  all  hope,  when  a  strong  arm 
lifted  me  and  I  was  raised  above  the  crowd. 
"  Take  heart,  Punchinello,"  said  a  mocking  voice 
that  struck  me  with  a  curious  familiarity,  and 
then   I   fainted  and  knew  no  more. 

My  eyes  opened  on  an  environment  of  such 
luxury  that  I  thought  I  must  be  dreaming. 
The  delicate-tinted  walls  were  hung  with  rare 
pieces  of  tapestry  and  curious  carven  brackets 
on  which  bowls  of  roses  reposed.  I  noted  by 
these  some  pictures  placed  in  the  happiest  light 


"PUNCfflNELLO"  171 

in  the  room,  and  as  my  scattered  wits  came  back 
to  me,  and  I  realized  that  I  was  in  the  land  of 
realities,  my  amazement  increased.  There  was 
a  toilet  table  near  me  covered  with  silver-backed 
brushes  and  hand  mirrors  and  fantastic  little 
boxes  for  the  holding  of  powder  and  cosmetics. 
I  had  thought  I  had  strolled  into  a  lady's 
chamber  had  it  not  been  for  a  pair  of  breeches 
tossed  over  a  chair.  The  sheets  of  the  bed  on 
which  I  lay  were  of  the  finest,  and  the  pillows 
fringed  with  lace.  Indubitably  a  lady's  cham- 
ber— yet  those  breeches  ?  My  gratitude  for- 
bade a  slanderous  thought,  still  I  could  not 
forbear  harbouring  certain  suspicions  regarding 
the  owner  of  my  present  residence.  Suspicions 
I  admit  that  in  no  wise  alloyed  my  felicity,  and 
I  was  on  the  point  of  dozing  again  when  I  heard 
a  voice  of  familiar  intonation.  "  Punchinello," 
it  said  softly,  "  how  goes  it  ?  "  I  looked  up,  and 
there  emerged  from  behind  the  curtains  a  very 
Adonis.  Straight  and  tall  as  a  man  should  be, 
with  clear-cut,  impassive  features,  and  dressed 
in  the  very  height  of  fashion,  reaching  indeed, 
in  his  adornments,  a  finery  that  touched  foppish- 
ness. There  Wcis  something  intimate  to  me  in 
his  face  and  voice ;  his  presence  stirred  the 
mists  of  memory,  and  slowly  the  shadows  lifted 


172  «  PUNCHINELLO '» 

and  a  picture  rose  before  me.  A  fair  orchard  in 
which  two  children  stood — the  one  as  splendid 
a  specimen  of  God's  handiwork  as  the  world 
could  offer,  the  other  a  miserable  stunted  boy. 
They  hurried  through  the  grasses  and  stood  by 
a  patch  of  water  that  glistened  like  a  silver 
shield  in  the  garish  sunlight,  throwing  back  a 
faithful  reflection  of  the  drooping  branches  that 
shadowed  it.  It  seemed  to  me  in  the  shifting 
panorama  of  my  vision  that  the  elder  lad 
mocked  the  younger,  who  looked  at  him  be- 
wildered, fearing  he  knew  not  what.  Then 
the  handsome  boy  ran  away,  vaulted  over  a 
stile  and  raced  gaily  with  the  foal  that  frolicked 
in  the  field,  and  the  child  at  the  water's  edge 
stared  into  the  pond  and  tugged  vigorously  at 
his  blouse  the  while.  Then  he  looked  up  into 
the  laughing  skies  with  a  tiny  ashen  face  and 
great  frightened  eyes  and  as  suddenly  turned 
again  to  his  flickering  reflection.  I  watched 
him  fascinated.  Who  had  said  "  Punchinello  "  ? 
In  a  moment  he  would  turn  and  fly  to  the  house. 
Ah,  he  ran  !  "  Punchinello  !  Punchinello  !  " 
Who  had  said  it  ?  I  groped  vainly.  Then  sud- 
denly through  the  fog  of  reminiscence — Cosmo 
Granby.  As  my  sick  brain  grasped  understand- 
ing, I  voiced  the  word.     "  Cosmo  1 "  said  I  with  a 


"PUNCHINELLO"  173 

catch  in  my  breath,  looking  up  at  the  handsome 
debonair  face.     "  Cosmo  ! " 

"The  same  at  your  service,"  said  he,  "and 
now  how  goes  it,  Master  Anthony  ?  There  is 
something  left  of  you  besides  cinder,  I  see." 
He  flung  himself  into  a  chair  and  regarded  me 
with  interest.  "  Had  it  not  been  for  a  woman's 
whim,  methinks  you  had  bidden  this  vale  of 
tears  a  long  farewell.  Nothing  would  suit 
Mistress  Letty  last  night  but  to  go  and  hear 
this  Parson  Sharpe,  who  has  the  repute  of  mak- 
ing penitents  by  the  gross  by  his  dexterous 
balancing  of  the  joys  of  Heaven  against  the 
penalties  of  Hell  ;  and  where  Mistress  Letty 
goes,  I  follow,"  he  went  on,  evidently  joying  in 
this  opportunity  of  making  me  intimate  with 
his   fashionable  amours. 

"  What  happened  to  her  ?  "  I  asked,  curious 
to  know  how  it  had  chanced  that  he  had  found 
opportunity  to  succour  more  than  one  from  out 
that  Gehenna  of  the  dying  and  dead. 

His  laugh  filled  the  room  with  a  jocund  roar. 
"  Hardly  had  the  service  fairly  opened  when 
Letty  was  weary  and  panting  to  leave.  The 
devil  takes  care  of  his  own  !  She  was  in  a 
nasty  mood,"  he  added  reflectively,  "  and  turned 
on  me  like  a  wild  cat,  when  I  offered  to  accom- 


174  "PUNCHINELLO" 

pany  her,  saying  that  she  desired  no  company 
but  her  own.  She  was  all  smiles  and  wiles 
when  she  entered  the  church  ;  but  there  is  no 
counting  on  a  woman's  mood  "  he  flung  out — 
an  opinion  I  cordially  endorsed,  which  seemed 
to  entertain  him  monstrously. 

"Ha,  ha,  Tony!"  he  chuckled,  "you  too? 
I  had  not  believed  it  possible."  I  winced 
under  his  gaze.  "  But  there,  so  long  as  a  man 
be  a  man,  no  matter  what,  they  are  bound  to 
upset  his  peace." 

"  You  remained  to  pray,  or  to  give  your  soul 
a  chance  of  salvation  through  Sharpe  ?  "  I  asked, 
desiring  to  divert  his  thoughts. 

"  Well,  no,"  he  said  with  a  fine  candour,  "  I 
remained  because  I  had  caught  sight  of  you, 
Tony,  and  thought  to  have  speech  with  you 
later.  And  then  this  affair  happened  and  I 
made  shift  for  auld  lang  syne  to  lend  a 
helping  hand — no  more,  no  less."  He  spoke 
with  a  sort  of  vexed  shame — that  shame  often 
noticed  in  brave  men  when  forced  to  speak 
of  their  own  deeds.  And  Cosmo,  though  it 
hurts  me  to  speak  well  of  him  in  any  way,  was 
strong  in  physical  courage,  being  in  no  wise 
deterred  but  rather  excited  by  the  thought  of 
danger. 


"PUNCHINELLO"  175 

For  the  moment  my  heart  warmed  to  him, 
for  after  all,  however  lightly  he  phrased  it,  he 
had  risked  his  life  to  save  mine,  and  I  put  my 
hand  out  and  would  have  grasped  his,  but  he 
turned  away  impatiently  as  I  broke  into  thanks, 
and  cut  across  my  words  with  questions  as  to 
what  I  would  eat  and  if  I  cared  to  rise.  He 
had  sent  for  no  physician,  he  said,  having  scant 
faith  in  them,  and  knowing  I  had  suffered  no 
burns. 

Indeed,  I  was  little  the  worse  save  for  a  re- 
curring weakness  and  giddiness,  the  result  of 
the  shock  I  had  sustained,  and  a  feeling  of 
nausea  that  seized  me  when  I  thought  of  the 
hideous  sights  I  had  witnessed. 

Thanks  to  his  steel  nerves,  Cosmo  seemed 
not  in  the  slightest  degree  incommoded  by 
the  ghastly  experiences  through  which  he  had 
passed.  He  dismissed  it  from  his  mind  as 
summarily  as  he  dismissed  an  inconvenient 
visitor,  wrinkling  his  nose  and  shaking  his  head 
distastefully  if  I  referred  to  them. 

"  An  unsavoury  subject,"  he  flung  at  me  that 
evening,  regarding  me,  as  I  could  not  escape 
noting,  with  the  well-bred  aversion  of  one  who 
avoided  all  indelicate  mention  in  fashionable 
circles  and  was  quick  to  reprove  a  transgression 


176  "PUNCHINELLO" 

of  the  unwritten  code.  My  reference,  consider- 
ing all  things,  was  not  perhaps  particularly  for- 
tunate, for  when  I  made  it  Granby's  rooms  were 
filled  with  the  gay  blades  of  his  acquaintance 
who  had  dropped  in,  and  to  whom  he  intro- 
duced me  in  most  cavalier  fashion  as  a  Lillipu- 
tian who  had  escaped  from  his  native  land.  At 
this  time  men  were  holding  their  sides  at  Dean 
Swift's  bitter  wit,  and  Gulliver's  Travels  was 
the  book  of  the  hour,  so  Granby's  joke  met 
with  instant  response.  God  !  how  I  hated 
him  when  he  mocked  me  thus,  and  none  the 
less  that  I  knew  his  merriment  was  devoid  of 
malice,  and  that  I  owed  him  "the  debt  of  my 
life. 

Perhaps  it  was  in  part  to  whip  my  memory  to 
necessary  gratitude  that  I  cut  across  their  gay 
speech  of  women  and  assignations,  the  toast 
called  over  brimming  cups,  the  talk  that  under 
cover  of  excited  disputation  regarding  the 
tumult  in  Ireland  whispered  that  the  "white 
cockade "  was  dear  to  many  who  professed 
Hanoverian  sympathies  and  that  they  carried 
their  heads  carefully,  and  spoke  of  the  confla- 
gration of  the  day  before.  One,  I  remember 
him  well,  put  his  handkerchief  to  his  nose  and 
looked   at   me   more   in  sorrow  than  in  anger. 


"PUNCHINELLO"  177 

"  Sh — ,"  said  a  second,  and  Granby  threw  me  an 
annoyed  glance. 

"  This  IS  not  a  charnel  house,"  said  he. 

I  looked  at  them  and  envied  the  address  with 
which  they  turned  their  backs  on  death  and  all 
unpleasantness,  indeed  suffering  me  in  their 
midst  with  something  of  difficulty  owing  to  my 
misshapen  form.  One  surveyed  me  through  his 
glass.  "  Passing  strange,"  sighed  he,  "  that  fair 
genius  should  inhabit  so  poor  a  shell." 

When  I  took  my  leave  Granby  was  well  in 
his  cups. 

"  Adieu,  Punchinello,"  he  hiccoughed  with 
infinite  difficulty,  stuttering  heavily  in  his 
speech.  He  was  playing  cards,  and  as  he  spoke 
he  flung  a  knave  on  the  baize  and  looked  at 
it  with  angry  eyes.  "  No  luck  to-night,"  he 
maundered,  and  suddenly  rose  and  staggering 
to  my  side,  laid  his  fingers  on  my  hump.  The 
touch  burns  me  now.  "  It  brings  luck,  they 
say,"  he  grinned. 

How  I  got  away  I  do  not  know.  I  wandered 
through  London  till  the  break  of  morning, 
stumbling  weakly  in  my  sickness,  yet  with 
strength  to  curse  him.  And  he  had  saved  my 
life,  which  fact  I  cursed  also.  Indeed,  I  termed 
it  cursing,  but  it  was  blessing  compared  to  the 

M 


178  "PUNCHINELLO" 

words  that  fill  my  mouth  when  his  image  crosses 
me  to-day.  Then  I  cursed  him  for  one — now 
my  maledictions  are  for  two  lives  undone. 
Then  it  was  but  the  smart  of  an  outraged 
nature — now  that  accident  lies  at  his  door. 


XI 


I  HAVE  always  held  that  Cosmo's  saving  of 
my  life  in  the  terrible  fire  at  St.  Mary's  was 
the  original  cause  of  all  my  miseries ;  for  by 
this  act,  he  knitted  up  again  the  threads  of  a 
severed  friendship  and  made  it  impossible  for 
me  to  reject  his  overtures.  Indeed,  my  mother, 
when  she  heard  of  his  succouring  me,  forgave 
him  all  the  past,  and  wrote  him  the  warmest, 
most  cordial  letters,  praying  him  to  visit  our 
home,  that  she  might  be  enabled  to  thank  him 
in  person,  and  eulogising  his  conduct  to  the 
skies.  I,  to  my  shame  be  it  told,  still  hated 
him  with  unabated  fervour,  and  felt  I  had  rather 
died  the  tortured  death  from  which  he  had 
carried  me  at  so  great  a  risk,  than  be  in  his 
debt. 

St.  Mary's  being  but  a  charred  block  of 
buildings,  I  was  constrained  at  this  time  to 
make  holiday  until  I  found  another  post,  and 
was  indeed  not  loth,  for  my  health  still  suffered 
from  the  heavy  strain  lately  put  upon  it,  and 

179 


i8o  .  "PUNCHINELLO" 

also  because  I  was  more  free  to  engage  in 
composition.  On  my  return  home  I  noted  a 
piteous  change  in  my  mother,  which  she  sought 
to  hide  with  artifices  that  had  not  deceived  an 
infant,  denying  that  aught  serious  ailed  her  and 
declining  to  speak  of  any  health  but  mine. 

I  straightly  questioned  my  sister  regarding 
her,  but  she  deemed  me  fanciful,  her  own  eyes 
being  blinded  by  the  constant  view  of  my 
mother,  so  that  the  minor  symptoms  of  sickness 
that  fretted  me  went  unperceived. 

Nan  had  gone  to  Town,  I  learned,  to  taste 
life  under  the  auspices  of  the  Lady  Agatha, 
and  my  mother  seemed  somewhat  troubled  on 
her  count.  "  According  to  Lady  Agatha," 
she  said  bitterly  to  me,  "  it  seems  as  if  a  man 
needed  but  a  pedigree  at  his  back  and  a 
generous  sum  at  the  bank,  to  make  an  ideal 
husband.  She  talked  of  mating  her  with  the 
Viscount  Lothair — the  man  might  be  her  grand- 
sire.     My  poor  little  Nan  !  " 

I  hated  to  hear  this  matrimonial  talk  re- 
garding my  cousin,  although  I  confidently 
assured  myself  that  I  had  no  touch  of  love  in 
my  heart  for  her  or  any  other  woman,  hav- 
ing been  cured  of  these  foolish  follies  by  the 
drastic     measures    of    Mistress     Marjory.       I 


"PUNCHINELLO"  i8i 

writhed  in  remembrance  of  her  sneer  and  yet 
cherished  the  memory,  feeling  that  my  best 
safeguard  in  the  future  lay  in  the  careful 
cherishing  of  this  word.  So  sought  I  to  spare 
myself,  poor  fool,  another  such  bitterness. 

It  smacks  of  meanness,  I  confess,  yet  I  must 
write  that  it  was  gall  to  me  to  listen  to  my 
mother's  kind  words,  praising  Cosmo,  and  to 
know  that  she  regretted  her  past  enmity  to- 
wards him.  Mistress  Granby  had  kept  up 
an  intermittent  intercourse  with  my  mother  till 
her  death,  but  I  had  never  seen  him  since  the 
episode  of  my  childhood  till  that  unfortunate 
day  in  the  burning  church.  My  mother  never 
mentioned  his  name,  being  full  of  wisdom  and 
knowing  that  silence  accelerates  forgetfulness  ; 
but  I  had  seen  her  face  change  when  by  some 
chance  the  lad's  name  was  spoken,  and  knew 
how  strongly  the  old  rancour  still  flourished. 
Now  all  was  changed :  she  lacked  words  fair 
enough  with  which  to  deck  his  name,  and  was 
eternally  praying  me  to  bring  him  to  her  that 
she  might  speak  her  thanks  in  person.  Thanks 
be  to  God !  Mistress  Granby  was  no  longer 
among  the  living,  or  I  believe  my  mother  had 
insisted  on  her  eternal  company  in  order  to  pour 
her  Te  Deum  into  her  ear§. 


i82  '*  PUNCHINELLO" 

The  days  glided  on,  seeming  curiously  restful 
to  me  after  my  sojourn  in  Town,  where  time 
was  flecked  with  incident  and  there  was  ever 
the  scandal  of  the  hour  ;  but  our  peace  was 
not  for  long. 

One  morning  I  found  my  mother  much 
troubled  by  the  receipt  of  a  missive  from  the 
Lady  Agatha  in  which  Mistress  Nancy's  pecca- 
dilloes were  set  forth  at  a  generous  length.  My 
cousin  had,  it  appeared,  wasted  no  time  before 
entering  into  her  aunt's  bad  graces,  where  she 
was  apparently  disporting  herself,  undismayed 
by  consequences — so  at  least  wrote  the  god- 
mother. The  letter  lies  at  my  hand,  almost  as 
magnificent  in  its  fine  violet  caligraphy  and 
gilded  coronet  and  crest  as  its  sender.  It 
began  with  long-winded  inquiries  touching  my 
mother's  health  which  I  will  not  transcribe, 
extracting  only  the  lines  relating  to  my  cousin's 
misdemeanours,  which  were  indeed  the  body 
of  the  letter. 

"  I  write  to  you,"  began  this  part,  "  in  dire 
distress  regarding  my  god-daughter,  who  has 
most  grievously  disappointed  me  by  her  mon- 
strous behaviour.  I  do  not  refer  to  her  ignor- 
ance of  the  usages  of  polite  society  nor  to  her 
familiar  ipanners  regarding  myself,  which  border 


"PUNCHINELLO"  183 

on  disrespect.  These  things  I  would  gladly 
pass,  knowing  the  manifold  disadvantages  that 
attended  her  youth,  but  I  write  of  graver  mat- 
ters, viz.,  what  the  rigour  of  the  truth  compels 
me  to  define  as  an  immodest  behaviour  towards 
the  sterner  sex.  She  treats  men — young  and 
old  indifferently — with  a  careless  graciousness 
that  I  have  never  before  seen  in  her  rank  of 
life.  When  a  youth  takes  her  fancy,  she  is  all 
smiles  and  sweetness,  caring  not  one  jot  for 
his  position  ;  indeed,  I  sometimes  think  she  par- 
ticularly affects  the  Bohemians  and  artists 
which  fringe  society.  On  the  other  hand  she 
treats  Viscount  Lothair — you  may  remember 
my  hopes  regarding  this  gentleman — with  a 
carelessness  that  trenches  on  indifference.  He 
is  attracted  by  her — God  wots  why — and  I 
know  by  a  little  cautious  manoeuvring  and 
moderate  exercise  of  diplomacy,  he  could  be 
brought  to  the  asking  of  her  in  marriage  ;  but 
my  damsel  lifts  her  nose  in  the  air  and  screams 
with  laughter  when  I  speak  of  it.  Now  I  must 
warn  you  that  in  the  event  of  his  asking  her  in 
marriage  and  meeting  with  a  refusal,  I  shall 
return  my  thankless  ward  to  you  straightway. 
I  shall  have  done  my  best  to  settle  her  in  life, 
and  if  she  prefers  to  frustrate  her  own  salvation, 


i84  "PUNCHINELLO" 

on  her  own  head  be  the  consequence."  Here 
the  letter  drifted  off  to  general  gossip :  a  ref- 
erence to  the  marked  change  in  women's  head- 
gear and  an  allusion  to  the  importation  of  a 
new  silk.  It  was  a  formal  letter  as  was  natural, 
considering  the  slightness  of  our  acquaintance 
with  the  correspondent,  but  there  was  a  genuine 
note  of  anger  in  it  touching  Mistress  Nancy  ; 
and  again  beneath  the  signature — written  in 
post-scriptum,  as  is  the  inevitable  habit  of 
women — lay  the  gist  of  the  letter,  gathered  into 
a  pregnant  phrase.  "  If  Nancy  declines  Lo- 
thair's  offer,  I  send  her  home." 

Now  I  with  unpardonable  egoism  was  re- 
joiced at  this  possibility.  My  heart,  school  it 
as  I  might,  rebelled  at  the  thought  of  Nan 
belonging  to  another,  and  there  was  to  me 
something  horribly  repulsive  in  the  thought  of 
her  being  sold — for  I  cannot  dignify  such  mar- 
riages by  a  higher  name,  and  see  little  differ- 
ence between  the  woman  who  so  gives  herself 
and  the  prostitute  who  takes  her  wage. 

Five  days  later  following  this  letter  came 
another  from  the  same  source,  breathing  fire 
and  fury.  "He  has  asked  her  hand  "  (I  take 
sentences  from  here  and  there,  the  communica- 
tion itself  being  too  long  to  transcribe),  "and 


^*  PUNCHINELLO*'  185 

has  been  refused — yes,  refused,  and  that  most 
impudently :  Nancy  feigning  to  think  that  he 
wished  to  adopt  her,  and  shrieking  with  laugh- 
ter (so  Lothair  tells  me)  when  she  mastered 
the  nature  of  his  request.  I  send  her  back 
to  you  at  your  earliest  convenience,  and  wish 
you  joy  of  the  baggage,"  etc.,  etc.  My  mother 
could  not  keep  from  smiling  when  she  read 
this  precious  paper ;  even  the  sedate  Cecily 
looked  conscious,  while  her  eyes  darkened  and 
I  could  see  that  she  was  thinking  of  a  straight 
youth,  no  other  than  little  Reuben,  who  had 
grown  to  man's  estate  and  was  for  ever  hanging 
on  her  skirts.  He  was  a  prosperous  man,  and 
his  years  passed  hers  by  five,  which  is  a  good 
majority  for  a  man  to  hold  over  his  wife. 

"  Poor  Nan  !  "  said  my  mother  at  last ;  and  her 
eyes  dwelt  on  her  daughter  with  a  new  gladness, 
as  if  she  was  more  sharply  aware  by  this  con- 
trast of  fortunes  of  Cecily's  good  fate  in  having 
fallen  to  the  taste  of  a  meet  mate. 

"  She  was  never  a  respecter  of  persons,"  said 
my  sister  with  a  giggle.  Nan's  impertinences 
had  always  amused  her  vastly ;  neither  of  us 
heeded  her.  My  mother's  eyes  had  waited  a 
moment  on  me,  and  then  her  glance  had  drifted 
away.       I  struggled    to  decipher  its  meaning. 


1^6  <*  PUNCHINELLO  " 

Half  puzzled,  half  wistful,  glad  with  a  felicity 
that  is  afraid  to  rejoice,  fearful  as  one  who  has 
not  abandoned  hope,  her  eyes  waited  on  me 
momentarily,  almost  as  if  they  conveyed  a 
warning. 

"  I  fear  she  will  regret  so  early  a  return,"  went 
on  Cecily,  who  could  always  prattle  placidly, 
indifferent  as  to  the  compliment  of  attention. 
"  She  has  been  so  restless  latterly,  always  pant- 
ing for  some  fresh  diversion,  so  starved  for 
amusement  as  to  be  constrained  to  study,"  and 
she  turned  to  me  gaily.  "  I  pray  the  harpsi- 
chord be  none  the  worse,"  said  she.  "  She 
practised  most  diligently — poor  Nan  "  ;  she  pro- 
nounced the  closing  words  with  infinite  com- 
passion. My  sister  had  an  honest  terror  of  all 
musical  exercise. 

"  I  have  noticed  no  harm,"  said  I,  wondering 
still  at  my  mother,  who  had  returned  to  her 
letter,  and  was  re-perusing  it  with  rapt  attention. 

When  Cecily  left  us,  as  she  shortly  did,  I  was 
so  pricked  by  curiosity  as  to  question  her ;  but 
she  rose  laughing  from  her  seat  and  would  tell 
me  nothing,  mocking  at  my  fancifulness.  By 
the  light  of  further  events  I  read  that  glance, 
and  knew  what  she  by  aid  of  woman's  wit  fore- 
saw.    If  aught  could  comfort  me  for  her  loss, 


"PUNCHINELLO"  187 

it  would  be  the  knowledge  that  by  her  death 
she  was  spared  the  horror  of  the  final  tragedy. 

Not  a  week  had  passed  when  another  letter 
arrived  from  the  Lady  Agatha,  telling  us  that 
her  god-daughter  was  on  the  eve  of  quitting 
her  mansion.  "She  returns  to  you  forthwith," 
wrote  Milady  in  a  tremulous  hand,  eloquent 
of  the  mighty  passion  that  animated  her.  "  I 
have  done  with  the  ungrateful  hussy  ! "  "  Un- 
grateful," I  may  mention,  was  heavily  scored 
with  ink,  that  the  opprobrious  adjective  might 
lose  no  jot  of  its  unkind  significance. 

My  cousin  arrived  two  days  after  this  missive, 
and  appeared  in  no  wise  dejected  by  the  abrupt 
closing  of  her  gaieties.  She  had  gathered  in 
her  brief  absence  a  marvellous  assortment  of 
tricks  and  fashions,  and  gave  me  the  tips  of  her 
fingers,  when  I  greeted  her,  with  an  ineffable 
air.  She  had  likewise  changed  the  manner  of 
her  walk,  and  truly  peacocked,  if  I  may  coin  a 
verb,  in  her  smart  silks  and  satins ;  but  she  was 
prettier  than  ever  and  wore  her  affectations 
with  the  sweetest  grace.  I  can  write  sanely 
now  of  this  time,  and  would  love  to  dwell  on 
it,  stimulating  my  memory  by  dry  statement 
in  black  and  white,  of  what  she  wore  and  what 
she  said ;  her  merest  trivialities  of  speech  lie 


i88  "  PUNCHINELLO  " 

burned  in  my  heart,  each  nonchalant  phrase 
dear  as  when  spoken  by  her  lips,  each  ripple  of 
her  laughter  greedily  guarded  from  oblivion. 
But  I  am  old,  and  the  decay  of  years  is  crum- 
bling the  citadel  of  my  memory ;  my  treasures 
I  feel  are  slipping  away  as  golden  coins  may 
slip  through  lax  fingers  of  weakness.  There  is 
no  time  to  write  all,  so,  true  to  the  plan  I  con- 
templated when  beginning  this  chronicle,  and 
from  which  I  have  most  grievously  lapsed,  I  will 
strive  to  confine  myself  to  the  incidents  from 
which  my  life  lay  strung.  I  could  laugh  when 
I  think  of  my  other  life  that  will  go  forth  to 
the  world  when  I  lie  dead.  It  has  been  most 
carefully  written  by  an  erudite  biographer,  and 
tells  of  my  successes  and  failures,  and  how, 
aided  by  an  indomitable  will,  I  reached  the 
highest  rung  of  success  :  it  tells  of  jealousies, 
and  favours,  and  of  the  rapturous  applause  that 
greeted  the  first  public  performance  of  the 
oratorio  that  I  hold  the  crown  of  my  life's  work. 
There  is  no  hint  of  that  affair  in  which  Mistress 
Marjory  so  practically  proclaimed  that  all  is 
fair  in  love  and  war — nothing  of  the  ridiculous 
fiasco  of  my  first  flight  into  public  favour. 
There  is  indeed  a  polite  reference  to  the — 
accident,   and   the   cloud   of  grief  that   marred 


"PUNCHINELLO"  189 

my  youth.  I  chuckled  as  I  read  it,  and  the 
faces  of  those  around  me  waxed  anxious,  and 
although  silence  reigned  I  knew  that  they  were 
thinking — "  he  is  mad." 

But  I  am  not  mad — quite  the  contrary.  My 
finest  work  has  been  done  since  that  accident ; 
my  eminent  biographer  proves  it  past  doubt  in 
that  beautiful  book  which  is  to  go  forth  to  the 
world  when  the  earth  is  over  me.  I  laughed  to 
myself  when  I  read  it :  he  is  so  complacently 
satisfied  with  his  dreary  record,  not  witting  that 
I  am  writing  my  life  too,  my  own  inmost  per- 
sonal life,  a  "  king  of  shreds  and  patches,"  and 
as  far  removed  from  that  stout  profitable  per- 
sonal existence  that  he  fondly  imagines  repre- 
sents my  span  on  earth,  as  aught  can  be.  With 
all  his  learning  he  has  missed  the  man.  He 
prattles  comfortably  of  how  at  the  zenith  of 
my  success,  when  thousands  were  shouting  their 
throats  hoarse  to  do  me  honour  at  the  great 

annual   festival  in  H ,  I  dropped  down  in 

a  dead  faint,  "  overcome,"  he  ponderously  ex- 
plains, "  by  the  widespread  recognition  of  his 
genius."  I  jeer — yet  how  should  he  know, 
poor  fool,  that  I  cared  not  one  jot  for  their 
shoutings  and  clappings,  but  that  my  senses 
left  me  owing  to  the  similarity  of  a  maid  who 


190  "PUNCHINELLO^' 

sat  in  the  audience  to  one  who  was  sleeping 
sound  beneath  the  daisies.  Just  the  line  of  a 
profile,  a  dark  curly  head,  and  by  some  refined 
torture  of  fortune,  a  scarlet  gown.  She  flung  a 
pert  word  at  a  man  near  her  as  I  stared,  and 
smiled — 'it  was  Nan  herself — that  quick  parting 
and  closing  of  the  lips.  I  do  not  know  what 
happened  next  My  biographer  is  no  doubt 
an  excellent  authority.  Let  it  stand  :  "  The 
applause  of  such  an  audience  was  no  doubt  too 
potent  for  the  composer,  coming  as  it  did 
after  arduous  mental  toil."  Let  it  stand — what 
matter  ?  We  know  better,  you  and  I,  sweet- 
heart. "  Nan !  Nan  !  Nan  1 "  I  cry  aloud,  and 
there  is  no  answer.  Shall  it  be  so  at  the  very 
end,  my  darling?  To  some,  as  a  saving 
anodyne,  is  given  belief  in  another  world,  where 
once  again  they  shall  stand  face  to  face  with 
all  they  hold  most  dear.  I  know  that  in  my 
foulness,  even  if  such  a  place  exist  and  not  be 
a  mere  mirage  evolved  by  the  passionate  desire 
of  some  lonely  heart,  I  could  not  enter  it.  Yet, 
if  I  believed  that  somewhere  Nan  lived  again, 
and  that  by  long  cycles  of  torment  spent  in 
atonement  God  in  His  mercy  might  grant  me 
a  moment's  vision  of  her,  I  should  be  the 
happier.     But  my  faith  wavers  and  I  am  afraid 


"  PUNCHINELLO  "  191 

to  die,  for  my  dying  means  the  blotting  out 
of  all  memories,  the  final  effacement  of  that 
shadowy  figure  that  haunts  me  in  the  garish 
days.  I  am  afraid — afraid — and  death  is  com- 
ing very  near. 

When  I  read  over  these  last  incoherent  lines, 
treading  so  closely  on  my  expressed  intention 
to  write  lucidly  the  remaining  little  that  remains 
of  my  life,  I  feel  indeed  that  I  am  very  old. 
Yet  it  is  not  worth  erasing,  and  indeed  if  a 
man  may  not  write  as  he  likes  regarding  his 
own  life,  where  shall  the  liberty  of  the  subject 
enter?  Nathless  I  must  make  an  end  of  my 
vapourings  and  tell  my  tale  lucidly,  for  now 
begins  the  time  that  held  the  very  salt  of  my 
life.  Up  to  this  period,  barring  my  musical 
life,  which  I  have  practically  left  to  my  good 
biographer,  there  has  been  little  to  relate.  After 
this  time  there  are  many  years  crammed  with 
striving  ambition.  Let  all  broken  hearts  take 
"  work "  for  a  cement — it  covers  the  cracks 
in  a  measure,  if  a  man  does  not  look  too 
close.  These  years  may  interest  the  amiable 
public :  they  seem  of  no  import  to  the  man 
who  lived  them,  besides — there  is  always  the 
biographer. 

But  there  is  a  time  between  Nancy's  return 


192  "PUNCHINELLO" 

and  an — accident  which  I  would  fain  write 
clearly,  so  that  by  definite  statement  I  may 
know  something  of  relief.  Yet  I  doubt  my 
hand  be  nerved  sufficiently,  though  what  I 
would  be  telling  lies  so  far  behind. 


Xll 


ANALYSE  as  I  may,  dissecting  every 
hour  with  merciless  exactitude,  I  can- 
not place  the  moment  when  the  divine  possi- 
bility that  Nan  loved  me  first  entered  into  my 
life.  It  may  have  been  a  conviction  born  of 
my  hot  desire ;  for  so  does  a  great  hope  beget 
a  happy  certainty,  holding  that  by  its  very 
force  it  must  cleave  through  all  obstacles  to 
the  golden  goal,  or  more  likely — to  descend 
from  these  heights  of  speech — the  swollen 
vanity  that  ever  characterised  me  and  which  at 
that  time  was  receiving  such  gracious  nourish- 
ment from  the  world,  may  have  encouraged 
the  fair  thought  that  she  was  not  averse  to 
me.  It  matters  not.  Slowly,  surely  through 
the  sad  autumn-tide  this  belief  held  me  faster 
and  filled  my  days  with  light — yet  I  spoke  no 
word.  I  was  still  living  at  home,  working  hard 
in  an  enforced  abstinence  from  public  employ- 
ment, and  Nancy  came  to  be  part  and  parcel 
of  my  daily  life.     My  mother,  who,  in  spite  of 

193  j^ 


194  "  PUNCHINELLO  " 

her  gallant  fight  to  prove  the  contrary,  was 
patently  passing  with  the  year,  watched  us  with 
the  dying  eyes  that  see  so  clearly,  and  as  the 
days  fled  I  could  see  ♦'he  question  more  and 
more  clearly  signalised  in  her  face  as  to  the 
end  of  this  silent  wooing. 

Now  I  must  go  softly  and  pick  my  words 
with  care,  in  order  that  my  word-pictures  prove 
successful  and  the  mirror  of  my  memory  flash 
the  past  faithfully. 

We  sat  together.  Nan  and  I,  in  the  music- 
room  that  I  had  made  peculiarly  my  own. 
The  first  touch  of  winter  was  on  us,  and  with- 
out the  world  lay  white  and  frostbound,  but 
within  the  great  logs  lay  piled  high  on  the 
hearth,  making  a  glowing  oasis  in  the  dusky 
shadows  and  flinging  warm  lights  on  the  oaken 
panelling. 

Nancy  sat  on  a  low  seat  before  the  fire,  and 
the  music  of  her  voice  filled  the  room.  She 
was  in  a  mocking  humour,  and  was  jeering  at 
her  estimable  godparent  and  her  choice  of 
swain.  "  Yet,"  she  surprisingly  flung  at  me, 
"  I  sometimes  wish  I  had  married  him.  I 
should  have  been  envied  by  many,"  said  she. 

"  The  compensation  seems  to  be  inadequate," 
I  observed. 


*'  PUNCHINELLO '»  195 

"  He  had  his  points,"  said  she  perversely. 
"  He  knew  what  he  wanted  and  feared  not  to 
ask.  *  Will  you  be  my  wife  ? '  said  he.  I  like 
a  man  like  that."  And  then  she  fell  to  ap- 
parent musing,  and  stared  into  the  ruddy 
hollows  of  the  logs. 

"  He  approached  seventy,  and  could  not  lay 
his  hand  on  a  clean  five  minutes  of  his  life,"  I 
retorted. 

"  I  never  heard  of  his  being  of  vicious  nature 
when  an  infant,"  she  remarked.  "  He  may  have 
ogled  his  nurse." 

I  said  no  more,  and  Mistress  Nan  shortly 
resumed  :  "  It  is  one  of  the  many  advantages 
of  being  a  man — being — er — "  (I  had  never 
known  her  hesitate  before) — "  able  to  ask  whom 
you  will  in  marriage.  A  fat  satyr  may  ask  me, 
but  I  may  not  venture  an  offer — no,  not  to  the 
most  suitable,"  and  she  sighed  profoundly. 

Now  here  my  heart  gave  a  great  leap — 
paused — and  then  fell  to  a  most  agitated 
trotting. 

"  I  should  word  it  more  adroitly  than  he,  I 
fancy,"  she  prattled,  with  her  back  to  me. 
"  *  Nan,  will  you  be  my  wife  ? '  he  said,  never 
doubting  an  affirmative.  How  should  I  say?" 
The  hope  that  by  its  very  magnitude  trenched 


196  "  PUNCHINELLO ' 

on  fear  grew  stronger  in  my  heart.  I  do  not 
know  why  I  delayed,  perhaps  reluctance  to 
break  the  pretty  string  of  her  words,  and  Nan 
meandered  on :  "I  should  say — had  I  the  right 
to  voice  my  preference — I  should  say — I  should 
say " 

Now  I  deliberately  held  my  peace,  savouring 
beforehand  the  delight  of  the  moment  when 
she  should  whisper,  "Anthony,"  while  great 
waves  of  golden  firelight  leapt  and  fell.  "  I 
do  not  know  what  I  should  say,"  quoth  she 
discontentedly  ;  "  it  is  not  so  easy,  after  all." 

Then  I  took  my  courage  in  both  hands  and 
flung  myself  on  my  knees  before  her,  crying 
out  all  that  had  been  locked  in  my  heart  for 
so  long,  mixed  with  bitter  recognition  of  my 
physical  defect.  I  was  half-choked  with  ex- 
citement, and  the  words  came  with  difficulty, 
yet  she  understood  and  mocked  me  through  the 
tears  that  wet  her  eyes. 

"It  is  ill  work  forcing  a  maid  to  such  for- 
wardness, Anthony.  1  was  on  the  verge  of  a 
proposal,  and  it  is  not  leap-year  that  I  know." 
Her  laugh  went  chiming  through  the  room  as 
a  peal  of  silver  bells ;  the  logs  crackled  gaily, 
flinging  out  a  shower  of  sparks.  "  For  better 
for  worse,"  said  she,  with  lips  pressed  to  mine ; 


"  PUNCHINELLO  "  197 

"till   death   us   do   part."       And   so   we   were 
betrothed. 

Later  we  went  without  for  a  moment  and 
looked  up  at  the  jewelled  skies  glittering  with 
stars,  and  Nan  made  an  obeisance  to  the  moon. 
"  For  luck,"  she  explained.  I  mind  that,  as 
she  passed  again  within  the  house,  I  noted  that 
she  had  left  the  print  of  her  foot  on  the  lightly 
fallen  snow,  and  that  I  stooped  and  kissed  it. 
It  is  a  curious  emotion — love.  "  Strong,  per- 
haps dangerous,"  as  old  Ooterwint  warned  me 
— good  for  other  things  than  an  argument  on 
which  to  hang  an  anthem.  Were  there  ghosts 
abroad  that  night  that  the  sombre  chanting  of 
the  choir  came  to  me  through  the  shadows  of 
the  night  ?  "  For  jealousy  is  cruel  as  the  grave — 
as  the  graver  The  pines  sobbed  it,  and  the 
pitiless  words  went  sighing  over  the  Downs — 
"  as  the  grave — cruel  as  the  grave!'  I  shook 
off  the  remembrance  and  followed  Nan  within 
the  house,  while  the  thought  of  what  the  day 
had  brought  me  sang  as  a  jubilant  psalm  in 

my  brain. 

«  •  •  «  • 

For  a  few  weeks  it  seemed  as  if  this  happy 
issue  strengthened  my  mother's  hold  on  life. 
She  was  very  anxious  that  we  should  be  wed 


T98  "  PUNCHINELLO '» 

without  delay,  and  somewhat  hurried  us  over 
the  Vorspiel  of  our  marriage,  in  which  Nan 
and  I  had  willingly  dallied.  But  my  mother 
would  have  us  fix  the  day  that  made  us  man 
and  wife ;  crying  that  she  feared  the  delay  that 
might  hold  her  death.  So  by  her  wish  we  were 
quietly  married  one  morning  in  the  little  church 
that  had  witnessed  the  scene  of  my  discom- 
fiture. I  remember  with  distinctness  my 
mother  speaking  with  me  privately  that  morn- 
ing in  her  bedchamber.  She  sent  for  me  early 
and  gave  me  her  blessing,  and  then  spoke  a 
word  of  warning.  "  Be  not  over-quick  to 
judge,  Tony,  nor  over-quick  to  despair ;  especi- 
ally guard  against  this  latter,  for  of  all  things 
that  cut  us  most  completely  off  from  God 
despair  stands  first ;  and,  Anthony  " — here  she 
waited,  and  by  a  twist  of  fancy  I  was  again  a 
puzzled  child  watching  her  face,  not  knowing 
what  her  sad  eyes  portended — "  Nan  is  young, 
very  young,  and  fairer  than  the  common  run 
of  women.  She  will  get  admiration  in  plenty, 
perhaps  be  greedy  of  it.  Be  not  jealous,  Tony  ; 
jealousy  is  a  foul  thing,  born  often  of  a  great 
love,  and  pitiless  beyond  all  things." 

"  She  loves  me,"  I  said,  half  hurt. 

"Yes,  yes."     She  kissed   me  on  the  mouth 


"  PUNCHINELLO ''  199 

"  I  would  not  cloud  your  marriage  morn,  but 
I  would  warn  you,  Tony.  If  ever  a  thought 
comes  to  you  that  your  Nan  is  slipping  from 
you  for  love  of  a  goodlier  man,"  her  sweet  voice 
took  all  sting  from  the  words,  "  cast  that 
thought  from  you.  For  so  most  surely  will 
the  devil  try  to  enter."  And  then  she  kissed 
me  again  and  spoke  lightly  of  other  things,  as 
if  relieved  to  have  ended  an  onerous  task. 


XIII 

THE  tale  of  the  following  three  months, 
suitably  written,  should  be  spelled  in  letters 
of  gold,  so  full,  so  perfect,  were  these  days  of 
bliss.  Perhaps  the  gods  grew  jealous  that  a 
mortal  should  enjoy  a  felicity  that  matched  their 
own,  and  let  me  savour  these  hours  that  in  the 
gray  loneliness  of  the  future  they  should  serve 
to  accentuate  my  loss.  Sometimes,  in  my  black 
hours,  when  I  curse  my  fate  and  sob  in  weak 
self-pity  over  my  wasted  life,  these  gay  days 
mock  me  till  I  feel  it  were  almost  better  to  have 
missed  them.  Three  months  —  three  little 
months  of  a  gladness,  at  the  thought  of  which 
I  hold  my  breath  in  pain — when  I  would  for- 
get, they  mock  me,  a  lustrous  oasis  in  the 
desolate  past  —  yet  in  truth  I  know,  had  I 
the  choice,  my^  remembrance  should  not  be 
ravished  of  them. 

Methinks  on  Olympus  the  gods  held  their 
sides  with  laughter  when  the  missive  from 
Cosmo  Granby  arrived,  holding  an  intimation  to 

200 


"PUNCHINELLO"  201 

the  effect  that  circumstances  at  last  enabled  him 
to  accept  my  mother's  kind  invitation,  and  that 
he  proposed  posting  to  us  the  following  week. 
My  mother  broke  into  gratulatory  ejaculations, 
thanking  Heaven  that  she  should  see  her  son's 
saviour  before  she  died.  Thanking  Heaven  ! — I 
could  laugh  now  had  I  but  leisure,  but  I  must 
hurry — hurry — for  Azrael  tarries  for  no  man's 
convenience,  and  I  have  yet  much  to  write. 
Granby  wrote  most  civilly,  hoping  that  I  had 
recovered  from  the  effects  of  the  fire  from  which 
he  had  had  the  good  fortune  to  rescue  me.  He 
had  heard  that  I  had  married  a  lady  of  exquisite 
beauty  (when  I  read  this  sentence  I  could  not 
but  smile  sardonically,  till  checked  by  my 
mother's  fretted  gaze) — again  he  prayed  I  had 
sustained  no  ill  effects.  At  this  point  my 
mother  pressed  the  paper  to  her  lips,  and  her 
eyes  grew  tenderly  grateful.  "  You  owe  him 
your  life,  Tony,"  said  she  ;  and  I — may  I  be 
forgiven  ! — stamped  for  rage. 

The  New  Year  had  been  born  six  weeks  when 
he  came.  It  was  a  sparkling  day,  with  a  tur- 
quoise sky  blown  clear  of  any  film  of  cloud  ;  the 
bare  tracery  of  the  stripped  boughs  flashed  with 
the  glitter  of  frost,  in  the  roads  the  pools  were 
sheeted  with  thin  ice.     He  arrived  in  the  early 


202  "  PUNCHINELLO  " 

afternoon,  and  as  he  stepped  into  the  room 
where  we  sat  awaiting  his  arrival,  it  seemed  as 
if  he  brought  with  him  a  hint  of  the  bracing 
invigoration  without.  He  was  looking  in  ex- 
cellent health  and  spirits,  and  as  he  entered  with 
the  buoyant  careless  grace  that  characterized 
him,  he  presented,  even  to  my  jaundiced  eyes, 
the  figure  of  a  very  goodly  man.  Puerile 
though  I  felt  it,  I  could  not  help  contrasting 
his  fine  vitality,  that  appeared  to  luxuriate  in 
this  bitter  weather,  and  my  own  poor  health,  that 
hardly  allowed  me  to  leave  the  house  in  these 
sharp  days.  Nan  had  lately  come  in,  and  stood 
by  the  great  stove  with  her  furs  loosened  round 
her  throat,  and  her  delicate  face  whipped  by  the 
keen  air  without  to  a  brilliant  rose.  My  mother 
lay  on  her  couch,  her  nerves  strained  to  listen. 
She  was  the  first  to  hear  his  coming,  and  flung 
us  the  intimation.  The  next  moment  he  was 
with  us,  and  my  mother  was  thanking  him 
through  her  tears  for  the  gift  of  my  life.  He 
listened  to  her  courteously  enough,  greeting  me 
the  while  ;  but  I  could  see  that  his  eyes  had 
fastened  themselves  on  my  wife,  and  the  sharp 
pain  that  I  was  to  know  so  intimately  pierced 
my  heart. 

His  glance  puzzled   me  —  through   its  ad- 


"PUNCHINELLO"  203 

miration,  as  he  bowed  to  her,  I  fancied  I  de- 
tected an  uncertain  recognition.  In  her  eyes, 
too,  there  was  a  bewilderment,  as  if  she  were 
puzzled  by  a  strange  likeness.  Then  in  a 
moment  the  cloud  lifted  from  his  face  and  he 
smiled  delightedly.  "  Little  Nan,"  said  he, 
coming  forward  with  outstretched  hands,  as  one 
who  meets  an  old  acquaintance,  "  Nan  Dallas," 
said  he,  using  her  maiden  name,  which  was 
naturally  the  same  as  my  own  surname. 

"  Master  Granby  ?  "  she  said  sedately  ;  "  nay, 
Jasper  Ruthven — an  unexpected  pleasure,"  and 
then  joined  my  mother  in  lauding  his  noble  act 
in  St.  Mary's  Church,  while  I,  the  saved,  and 
therefore  the  cause  of  all  this  adulation,  sat  by 
morose,  and  feeling  incapable  of  more  than  a 
conventional  civility. 

When  the  tumult  of  gratitude  had  in  some 
measure  subsided,  I  learned  the  history  of  this 
acquaintance. 

Cosmo,  it  appears,  when  travelling  abroad, 
had  met  my  uncle,  and  on  his  occasional  visits 
to  his  lodgings  had  seen  Nancy,  who  was  then, 
he  kindly  informed  me  later,  one  of  the  sweetest 
buds  of  womanhood  he  had  ever  had  the  delight 
of  knowing.  He  had  changed  his  name  before 
going  abroad,  which  accounted  for  my  wife  not 


^04  «  PUNCHINELLO '» 

recognising  an  old  friend  in  the  hero  of  my 
adventure ;  he  gave  me  no  reason  for  this 
dubious  proceeding,  but  I  learned  later,  through 
a  trustworthy  authority,  that  less  choice  than 
expediency  had  advised  travel. 

From  the  first  he  made  no  endeavour  to  hide 
his  great  admiration  for  my  wife.  He  would 
sit — his  eyes  fastened  on  her,  with  an  intentness 
for  which  I  could  have  struck  him — gloating  on 
her  beauty ;  his  gaze  glued  o'  nights  to  the 
white  curve  of  her  naked  neck.  And  I  had  to 
sit  silent  and  watch  him  till,  nerved  by  the 
mesmeric  force  of  his  gaze.  Nan  would  lift  her 
eyes,  wide  wells  of  light,  and  fling  him  a  word 
or  smile.  "  She  will  be  given  much  admiration." 
The  sage  words  of  my  mother's  homily  on  my 
marriage  morn  beat  in  my  brain,  needing  not 
her  warning  eyes  that  would  be  fixed  on  me 
sometimes  when  I  turned  from  watching  the 
pair  with  a  fear  in  them  that  trembled  into 
panic.  "  He  saved  my  life  !  he  saved  my  life  !  " 
I  would  repeat  this  formula  to  myself  as  a 
panacea  when  I  felt  the  rising  passion  master- 
ing me,  striving  to  strike  sparks  from  a  dead 
emotion  that  refused  to  be  quickened.  At  this 
time  I  held  Nan  as  guileless  of  any  evil  intent 
as  I  hold  her  now,  when  it  is  too  late  for  any 


"PUNCHINELLO*^  :Jo5 

human  praise  or  blame  to  touch  her.  Truly 
she  gave  him  look  for  look  and  smile  for  smile, 
and  to  my  jealous  eyes  adorned  herself  more 
carefully  to  pleasure  him ;  but  in  these  early 
days  my  maniacal  obsession  was  not  such  as  to 
utterly  pervert  my  judgment,  and  I  valued  her 
wanton  ways  truly,  seeing  in  them  nothing  more 
nor  less  than  the  flattered  delight  of  a  beautiful 
woman  revelling  in  the  first  force  of  her  beauty. 
By  a  grotesque  accident  /  was  his  trump-card. 
When  Nan  would  note,  with  the  flawless  in- 
tuition of  a  keen-witted  woman,  what  was  pass- 
ing in  my  mind  and  accord  him  a  chilly  shoulder, 
cleverly  enough  avoiding  all  personal  suggestion, 
he  would  turn  her  thoughts  to  the  augmen- 
tation of  my  weakness,  thereby  unerringly  in- 
dicating the  cause.  From  that  for  her  thoughts 
to  fly  to  his  gallant  part  so  lately  played,  took 
but  the  space  of  a  moment,  and  where  she  had 
showed  an  indifferent  attention  she  became  all 
smiles  and  sweet  graciousness,  seeing  in  the 
over-bold  gallant  her  Tony's  deliverer.  As  I 
sat  silent  over  my  writing  1  could  see  his  game 
well  enough,  and  knew  the  value  of  his  cards 
as  well  as  he.  He  was  a  careful  player,  not 
foolishly  rash,  and  played  to  win  ;  nor  was  he 
tempted  by  adverse  success  to  risk  his  highest 


2o6  "PUNCHINELLO** 

card  too  soon  in  the  deal.  If  he  had  a  fault,  it 
was  his  indifference  to  the  onlooker  whom  we 
know  proverbially  sees  the  most  handsome  part 
of  the  game.  But  he  had  always  despised  me. 
"  Indeed,  a  very  Punchinello  !  "  These  phrases 
live  everlastingly  in  the  brain  when  kind  words 
are  forgotten,  and  I  had  always  an  excellent 
memory  for  a  slight. 

As  the  days  passed  his  familiarities  increased, 
and  I  would  wonder  at  the  breaking  of  each  day 
whether  my  patience  would  endure  to  night. 
Only  my  sense  of  indebtedness — for,  after  all, 
he  had  risked  his  life  for  mine — stayed  my 
speech. 

Once  I  was  within  an  ace  of  losing  my  con- 
trol. Nan  had  caught  something  of  a  chill,  and 
was  confined  to  the  house,  and  Granby  had  ap- 
parently lost  all  zest  for  exercise  and  air,  and 
hardly  left  her,  striving  always,  as  he  had  it,  to 
lighten  my  wife's  imprisonment. 

One  afternoon  he  left  us  for  a  little,  and  Nan 
and  I  were  alone  in  the  parlour. 

She  was  in  a  curious  moody  humour,  and 
spoke  with  an  irritability  foreign  to  her.  I  my- 
self was  in  not  too  gay  a  temper,  and  we  needed 
but  an  excuse  to  put  our  smouldering  vexed- 
ness  into  words. 


"  PUNCHINELLO  "  207 

"  How  dull  it  is  !  "  said  Nan,  with  both  arms 
above  her  pretty  head  and  opening  her  red  lips 
into  a  very  heigh-ho  of  weariness. 

"  He  will  soon  be  back,"  I  said  unpleasantly. 

"Who?"  said  she  artlessly  enough. 

"  Your  admirer,"  I  grunted. 

She  looked  at  me,  and  the  temper  gathered  in 
her  face. 

"  The  saints  be  praised  !  "  She  gave  another 
yawn  enough  to  tear  her  mouth  apart,  and  then 
snoozled  her  head  into  the  cushions  of  her  couch 
and  made  as  though  she  would  sleep. 

This  was  more  than  flesh  and  blood  could 
bear,  and  I  plumped  myself  upon  the  end  of 
her  seat  and  made  ready  for  war.  "  Nancy," 
I  said,  appreciating  the  added  dignity  of  the 
second  syllable,  "  I  would  speak  with  you." 

"  Speak,"  she  flung  at  me  in  a  tone  of  ex- 
tremest  weariness. 

My  head  swims  when  I  would  write  of  this 
time.  To  think  that  the  awful  tragedy  opened 
with  a  man's  coarse  stare — with  these  trivial 
words  !  There  should  have  been  a  graver  note  ; 
but  no,  I  remember  well  enough  our  ridiculous 
falling  out.  Had  we  known,  my  sweetheart, 
had  we  known  !  But  we  had  no  thought  of  what 
the  future  held.     I  was  sore  and  jealous  indeed, 


2o8  "PUNCHINELLO" 

but  my  wrath  was  all  centred  on  Granby,  and 
she — what  was  she  thinking  when  she  turned 
her  head  away  and  bade  me  speak  ?  How  best 
to  tease^ — I  would  wager  my  soul.  Had  we 
known  !  But  we  did  not  know,  and  squabbled 
as  two  children. 

"  It  is  regarding  Granby,"  I  said  sharply  ; "  you 
appear  to  find  favour  in  his  eyes." 

"  His  eyes  are  such  a  pretty  blue,"  she  re- 
turned, with  her  face  in  the  cushion, "  he  finds 
favour  in  mine." 

"  He  insults  you  by  his  open  admiration,"  I 
went  on.  "  You— you  do  not  encourage  him. 
Nan,"  I  paused,  longing  to  urge  her  to  rebuff 
him,  yet  fearing  to  banish  her  innocence. 

She  looked  at  me  placidly  and  sat  up 
straightly  on  her  sofa.  "  I  put  my  arm  round 
his  neck — so,"  said  she,  suiting  the  action  to  the 
word  ;  "  my  hands  meet  his — so  ;  then  I  put  my 
lips  to  his  cheek — so  ;  and  I  say  :  *  Anthony, 
how  great  an  owl  art  thou  ! '  "  And  she  laughed 
outright.  "  Jealous  ! "  she  mocked.  "  Fie — for 
shame  ! " 

"  I  am  not  jealous,"  I  said,  semi-appeased. 
"  Nan,  shall  we  give  him  a  hint  to  go  ? " 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  looked  away. 
"  He  saved  your  life,"  she  said.  I  knew  she  would. 


"PUNCHINELLO"  209 

"  Damnation  !  "  said  L  "  Had  I  as  many 
lives  as  a  cat  and  he  had  saved  them  all,  it 
would  not  pardon  his  present  behaviour." 

She  looked  at  me  with  disfavour.  "  Othello 
was  an  unpleasant  character,"  she  said  unex- 
pectedly ;  "jealousy  is  the  meanest  of  vices." 

"  At  the  worst  there  is  always  the  pillow," 
I  said  in  bitter  jest,  with  my  mind  on  Othello 
and  my  eye  on  the  cushion.  And  here  she 
burst  into  a  storm  of  tears,  and  I  could  only 
retract  and  apologize,  and  proclaim  her  a  very 
incarnation  of  the  proprieties,  a  past-mistress  in 
the  art  of  careful  behaviour,  till  she  was  pleased 
to  be  comforted. 

Peace  was  hardly  assured  and  I  was  still 
humiliating  myself  before  my  beloved,  when 
Cosmo  returned  from  his  walk,  and  marched 
into  the  parlour  with  the  jubilant,  colours- 
flying  air  that  I  so  resented.  A  morbid  mind 
will  evolve  monstrous  emotions  with  the  utmost 
facility.  I  cannot  explain  it,  but  it  seemed  to 
me  that  in  Cosmo's  presence  I  grew  more 
stunted  and  wizened,  that  such  poor  vitality  as 
I  owned  was  sucked  out  by  him  to  the  enrich- 
ing of  his  magnificent  physique.  Vampires  are 
held  part  of  the  legendary  lore  that  is  builded 
by  weak    superstitious  minds,  yet  for   all   my 

O 


210  "PUNCHINELLO" 

boasted  scepticism  of  such  follies,  they  peopled 
my  mind  in  Granby's  presence.  He  was  so 
gloriously,  magnificently  alive.  As  he  came 
towards  Nan  with  a  little  bunch  of  newly- 
plucked  violets  in  his  hand,  I  could  not  but 
admire  him  for  all  my  hatred. 

He  greeted  Nan  with  a  low  obeisance.  "Spring 
is  coming,"  he  said,  "  the  earth  is  stirring — her 
first  offering,"  and  he  strove  to  push  the  violets 
into  the  girdle  of  her  gown. 

When  I  saw  his  hands  fingering  her  body, 
and  she  smiling  and  not  repulsing  him,  but 
treating  him  with  an  added  kindness  as  if  to 
punish  my  late  temper,  a  great  surge  of  passion 
rose  up  in  my  heart,  rendering  me  speechless. 
I  could  only  stare  at  the  pair,  noting  how  well 
they  matched  each  other  as  they  stood  side  by 
side,  his  fair  head  inclined  towards  her  dusky 
curls :  he  striving  to  fasten  the  flowers  in  her 
band,  she  pushing  him  away  with  a  coquettish 
feint  of  resistance.  I  do  not  know  what  would 
have  happened.  A  scarlet  veil  was  before  my 
eyes  and  my  hands  were  twitching ;  I  could 
fancy  them  pressing  on  his  strong  throat,  press- 
ing, pressing  till  the  eyes  started  and  the  head 
hung  helpless.  My  fancy  revelled  in  this 
ghastly  picture.    I  must  do  it  soon,  I  felt,  before 


"PUNCHINELLO"  211 

the  old  influence  began  to  work,  and  my  blood 
ran  as  water  in  my  veins. 

I  do  not  know  what  would  have  passed,  but 
at  this  moment  there  was  a  scuffle  in  the  room 
over  us  in  which  my  mother  slept,  and  a  woman 
shrieked.  Nan  was  out  of  the  room  and  half- 
way up  the  stairs  in  a  moment,  and  I  followed 
her  with  such  speed  as  I  could  muster,  mechani- 
cally apologising  to  Granby  as  I  brushed  past 
him. 

The  scene  that  met  my  eyes  as  I  pushed 
open  the  door  of  my  mother's  bedchamber, 
cooled  my  passion.  1  forgot  my  anger,  for  I 
saw  death  clearly  written  in  my  dear  one's  face. 
She  lay  fighting  for  breath  in  her  maid's  arms, 
her  features  twisted  with  pain,  the  great  drops 
of  sweat  standing  on  her  brow. 

When  the  spasm  was  passed,  she  turned  her 
eyes  on  me,  and  made  a  movement  with  her 
lips  as  if  she  would  speak,  and  then  turned  to 
the  others  making  as  if  she  wished  them  away. 
I  had  been  used  to  her  attacks  and  took  her 
woman's  place  without  delay,  motioning  to  the 
others  to  fall  back.  - "  Tony,"  she  breathed 
through  her  white  lips,  each  word  wrenched 
from  her  in  extremest  agony,  "  jealousy — cruel 
as  the  grave — beware  1 "     The  pain  seized  her 


212  "PUNCHINELLO" 

again,  till  we  who  loved  her,  tortured  by  the 
sight  of  her  agony,  wished  her  dead.  Once,  as  it 
partially  subsided,  I  fancied  she  fought  again 
for  words.  Her  eyes  indeed  reached  the  elo- 
quence of  articulate  appeal.  And  then  with  a 
great  sob  her  soul  went  forth. 


XIV 

HAD  my  mother  lived,  I  sometimes  think, 
with  that  love  common  to  us  all  of 
crediting  unhappy  circumstance  with  events 
long  since  decreed  by  Fate,  I  had  not  reached 
the  extremity  I  did  ;  but  her  dying  robbed  me 
of  a  saving  influence,  and  the  devils  I  harboured 
worked  their  will  unchecked. 

Primarily,  out  of  the  sad  evil  of  her  dying  a 
temporary  good  ensued,  inasmuch  as  decorous 
usage  rendered  Granby's  departure  from  the 
house  of  mourning  imperative ;  and,  in  my  brutal 
egoism,  the  knowledge  that  death  had  hurried 
his  going  in  measure  mitigated  my  grief  at  my 
dear  one's  loss. 

Spring  was  upon  us  in  all  its  glory,  the 
meadows  were  gay  with  cuckoo  flowers  and 
cowslips,  when  one  morning  I  noted  a  letter 
addressed  to  Nancy,  in  Granby's  hand,  lying  in 
the  vestibule.  I  recognised  the  optimistic  up- 
start of  his  fist,  his  grandiloquent  capitals,  his 
vain-glorious  crest     A  familiar  scent  arose  fron^ 


214  "  PUNCHINELLO  " 

the  missive.  I  had  smelled  it  before,  arising 
from  the  packet  in  which  he  had  written  to 
my  mother  apprising  her  of  his  approaching 
arrival. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  I  fingered  it  some- 
what over-carefully,  studying  it  with  an  interest 
that  infringed  the  code  of  honour  which  pro- 
tects the  correspondence  of  another.  I  would 
have  given  much  to  have  broken  the  seal,  but 
some  instinct  of  delicacy  prevented  me,  and  I 
left  it  there,  curious  to  know  if  my  wife  would 
speak  to  me  of  having  received  it,  or  if  my 
jealous  behaviour  had  driven  her  to  diplomatic 
secrecy. 

Stainless  as  I  knew  her  to  be  of  aught  savour- 
ing of  intrigue,  I  was  relieved  when  she  spoke 
to  me  concerning  this  letter.  It  was  not  till 
after  our  mid-day  meal,  and  I  had  spent  the 
forenoon  in  idleness,  incapable  of  concentrating 
my  attention  on  my  work.  I  could  hardly  bear 
to  sit  opposite  her  at  table,  listening  to  her  light 
talk,  knowing  what  lay  in  her  pocket.  Cecily 
was  away  from  home,  spending  a  few  weeks 
with  Reuben's  mother,  and  Nan  and  I  were 
alone,  so  I  could  not  take  refuge  in  silence,  but 
was  forced  to  play  an  indifferent  part,  utilising 
such  histrionic  ability  as  I  possessed, 


"  PUNCHINELLO '*  215 

"From  your  friend  Granby,"  she  broke  out 
suddenly,  pulling  forth  the  packet  and  looking 
at  me  with  a  face  filled  with  complex  emotions, 
amusement  not  hindermost  amongst  them.  "  He 
writes  most  concernedly  of  your  health,"  she 
went  on,  "and  also  of  a  scandal  that  is  wag- 
ging tongues  in  Town,  from  whence  he  has 
lately  returned.  The  letter  is  not  franked,  as 
you  may  see,"  she  babbled  on,  holding  it  up. 
"  His  servant  brought  it."  She  made  a  fine 
feint  of  great  ease,  but  I  could  see  that  she 
was  troubled. 

"  I  hate  him  ! "  I  burst  out  suddenly,  knowing 
it  vain  to  dissemble.  She  looked  at  me  re- 
proachfully and  shook  her  pretty  head. 

"  Oh,  Tony !  he  saved "  she  began  (I  knew 

she  would),  but  got  no  further,  for  I  leapt  to  my 
feet  in  a  very  fury,  and  in  my  hurry  dragged 
the  cloth,  and  a  dish  fell  crashing  on  the  floor. 
I  did  not  heed  it,  and  would  have  left  the  room 
had  not  Nan  seized  my  arm  and  forced  me  to 
a  chair,  screaming  with  laughter  the  while. 
Her  merriment  rang  so  heart-whole  that  I  could 
not  choose  but  join. 

Lately  our  days  had  been  but  grey,  haunted 
with  a  lost  presence,  and  this  flash  of  jocundity 
was  welcome,  as  breaking  the  thraldom  of  our 


2i6  "PUNCHINELLO" 

sorrow  and  subtly  tuning  life  to  a  normal  key. 
But  loth  though  I  was  to  mar  the  hour,  I  de- 
sired to  bring  home  to  her  the  necessity  for 
caution  with  one  of  Granby's  creed  regarding 
women.  But  she — she  would  not  heed,  nor 
even  affect  to  listen,  stopping  my  mouth  with 
kisses  when  I  spoke  of  him,  or  else  assuming  a 
vexation  that  bid  fair  to  tremble  into  anger. 

"I  will  forbid  him  the  house,"  I  fumed. 

"No — no,"  she  said,  and  for  a  moment  I 
could  have  sworn  that  a  monstrous  terror  shone 
in  her  eyes ;  "  do  not  anger  him." 

"Any  one  would  think  you  feared  him,"  I 
said,  the  memory  of  that  evanescent  flash  green 
in  my  memory.  "  I  hate  him,  too,"  she  whis- 
pered, as  if  fearful  that  walls  had  ears.  "For 
why?  He  sows  dissension  between  us  two." 
She  would  have  kissed  me  again,  but  I  knew 
that  she  lied,  and  rejected  the  proffered  caress. 
Her  face  shadowed,  as  will  that  of  a  child  when 
repulsed,  but  she  dared  my  glance  !  "  Honest ! 
I  hate — hate — hate  him  ! "  she  repeated,  putting 
out  a  hand  in  earnest  of  good  faith. 

"  Honesty  is  said  to  be  the  best  policy,"  I 
returned,  striving  to  speak  lightly. 

"  An  apothegm  that  no  doubt  emanated  from 
the  dock,"  she  flipped  at  me. 


"PUNCHINELLO"  217 

"  Turning  cynic  ?  "  I  said,  and  laughed,  in  spite 
of  my  irritation,  at  her  ready  tongue. 

"  What  is  a  cynic  ?  "  she  said,  with  feminine 
astuteness,  striving  to  coax  me  from  the  stormy 
subject  of  our  converse. 

"  A  cynic  is  a  believer  in  human  nature,"  I 
sneered.  "  He  holds  that  it  will  triumph  over 
love,  truth,  faith,  and  honour ;  and,  by  my  soul, 
I  hold  him  right,"  I  added  with  returning 
temper. 

"  Swear  not  at  all,"  she  reproved  gravely ; 
"not  even  by  a  negligeable  quantity." 

"Granby "  I  began. 

"  Oh,  Granby  me  no  Granbys ! "  she  said, 
with  an  imperious  stamp  of  foot  ;  "  one  man  at 
a  time  is  enough  for  any  woman." 

"  I  am  not  jealous,"  I  said,  clutching  at  my 

dignity  with  both  hands  ;  "  but — but "  and 

I  stuck  unhappily,  shamed  by  the  gay  interro- 
gation in  her  eyes,  and  for  the  time  my  fears 
were  lulled. 

I  do  not  know  whether  Granby  had  read 
what  was  passing  in  my  mind  at  our  last  meet- 
ing, when  my  mother's  death  had  saved  nie 
from  an  inexcusable  passion,  but  when  he  rode 
over  some  days  later  to  visit  us,  his  manner 
had  lost  the  arrogance  that  had  formerly  charac- 


2i8  "PUNCHINELLO" 

terized  it,  and  was,  indeed,  conciliatory.  He 
stayed  but  a  few  minutes,  for  Nan,  to  my  great 
thankfulness,  did  not  appear,  and  I  made  no 
effort  to  detain  him.  He  had  but  lately  arrived 
from  Town,  he  told  me,  and  was  living  at  his 
own  house  some  ten  miles  from  us.  He  made 
a  few  remarks  regarding  the  dulness  of  the 
country,  congratulated  me  on  my  recovered 
health ;  and  then  came  an  awkward  silence, 
which  I  did  not  break,  and  he  rose.  As  he 
was  leaving  he  bade  me  give  his  respects  to  my 
wife,  and  express  his  regret  that  the  continued 
lowness  of  spirits  from  which  she  suffered  made 
it  impossible  for  her  to  receive  visitors  (an  ex- 
cuse, it  appeared,  that  the  maid  had  pleaded 
when  he  called  at  our  house  a  few  days  pre- 
viously, and  which  he  obviously  thought  had 
emanated  from  me).  I  knew  nothing  of  the 
matter,  and  would  have  said  a  civil  word,  when 
his  manner  suddenly  changed,  and  he  broke 
into  a  low,  mocking  laugh. 

"  She  is  not  over-strong,"  I  began,  and  waited 
puzzled. 

"  Be  careful  of  her,  Punchinello,"  he  said  ; 
"accidents  happen."  And  before  I  could  re- 
spond his  horse  was  away,  and  only  the  clatter 
of  the  hoofs  sounded  up  the  avenue. 


"PUNCHINELLO"  219 

I  spoke  of  his  visit  to  Nan,  but  she  said  no 
word  but  "  I  hate  him,"  while  her  face  grew 
white  to  the  very  mouth. 

"Is  there  aught  between  you?"  I  said  in 
fury,  noting  her  eyes  of  fear. 

"  Nothing — nothing !  Please  God,  I  shall 
never  see  his  face  again ! "  was  all  she  cried, 
and  then  flung  her  arms  round  my  neck,  saying 
she  loved  me  the  better  for  my  silly  jealousy, 
and  gibing  at  Granby ;  but  I  could  not  forget 
her  frightened  eyes,  and,  despite  myself,  a  sus- 
picion stole  into  my  mind  that  she  was  fooling 
me. 

One  spring  evening  a  week  later  an  inci- 
dent occurred  which,  trivial  in  itself,  was  suffi- 
cient to  fan  my  suspicion  to  a  quicker  flame. 
I  had  not  seen  my  wife  since  the  early  after- 
noon, when  she  had  spoken  of  walking  to  see 
a  sick  child  in  the  hamlet  that  lay  a  mile's 
distance  from  our  doors.  I  had  begun  to  feel 
uneasy,  for  the  greyness  was  fast  growing 
opaque,  and  I  could  not  bear  the  thought  of 
her  wandering  lonely  through  the  lanes,  when 
she  suddenly  appeared,  all  panting  with  run- 
ning and  her  face  marked  with  traces  of  late 
agitation. 

When  I  asked  what  ailed  her,  she  turned  on 


220  "PUNCHINELLO" 

me  furiously,  saying  I  made  her  life  a  hell  with 
baseless  suspicion — I,  who  had  had  no  thought 
of  aught  but  that  some  accident  had  happened 
to  her.  But  her  words  set  the  latent  jealousy  in 
my  mind  working,  and  no  doubt  my  expression 
testified  to  the  error  of  judgment  she  had  com- 
mitted, for  she  would  have  reclaimed  her  speech 
and  made  all  smooth  with  pretty  words  ;  but  it 
was  too  late,  and  though  I  strove  to  answer 
her  easily  I  could  not  help  my  voice,  that  rang 
curiously  even  in  my  own  ears. 

A  few  days  later  I  walked  alone,  striving  to 
allay  my  mind's  uneasiness  by  such  rapid  exer- 
cise as  I  could  compass.  Being  feeble,  I  seldom 
went  great  distances,  but  on  this  particular  day 
it  seemed  as  if  my  body  were  informed  with 
a  feverish  restlessness  that  I  could  not  control, 
though  my  limbs  ached  from  weariness.  I 
walked  on  and  on,  resolving  every  moment  to 
turn,  yet  forced  further  by  a  mysterious  force 
that  rendered  me  incapable  of  volition.  I  had 
long  left  the  high  road,  and  was  skirting  a 
wood  preparatory  to  again  striking  out  across 
country,  when  my  eyes  were  caught  by  the 
flutter  of  a  woman's  gown  between  the  trees. 
It  was  a  black  gown,  and  the  sombre  folds 
struck  a  dismal  note  in  the  gay  green  of  the 


"PUNCHINELLO"  221 

newly-leaved  trees.  She  was  speaking  to  some 
one  half  concealed  by  a  trunk,  and  was  seem- 
ingly entreating  this  hidden  personage — at  least, 
so  I  gathered  from  her  clasped  hands.  There 
was  something  strangely  familiar  about  her 
back.  I  held  my  breath  in  pain  as  I  advanced, 
fearing  I  knew  not  what,  and  not  allowing  my 
real  fear  even  to  myself.  Suddenly  the  girl — 
for  she  was  no  more — turned  her  head,  and  the 
thought  that  I  had  denied  crystallized  and 
flashed  clearly,  no  longer  to  be  cheated.  I 
recognised  my  wife  and  Granby.  They  could 
not  see  me  as  I  crept  towards  them,  but  I  could 
see  that  Nan's  face  was  drenched  with  tears, 
and  scraps  of  their  talk  floated  towards  me  on 
the  breeze. 

I  crouched  towards  them  ;  my  senses  seemed 
to  have  all  converged  into  that  of  hearing, 
which  was  intensified  to  a  point  that  touched 
anguish.  "  Cosmo — Cosmo  !  "  I  heard  her  say, 
and  then  the  wind  wantoned  in  the  canopy  of 
leaves  over  my  head,  and  I  heard  but  a  con- 
fused murmur  when  she  spoke.  I  could  just 
see  him,  as  he  stood  with  the  confident,  con- 
quering smile  on  his  face  that  I  had  so  hated 
when  a  child. 

"You   fear  him   mightily" — the  breeze  was 


222  "  PUNCHINELLO  " 

stayed  for  the  moment,  and  his  voice  travelled 
clearly  to  me.  "  Is  it  a  savage  Lilliputian  ? " 
I  knew  he  spoke  of  me,  and  how  my  ears  were 
strained  to  hear  her  answer !  But  the  accursed 
flutter  began  again  in  the  dancing  leaves,  and 
worse — a  great  bar  of  golden  light  cleft  the 
interlaced  boughs  and  glittered  on  the  silver 
buttons  on  my  coat,  so  I  was  forced  to  crouch 
lower ;  but  although  I  could  not  hear  her 
speak,  their  actions  were  clear  enough.  I  saw 
him  step  forward  and  take  her  in  his  arms,  and 
press  his  mouth  to  hers,  which  she  suffered  all 
unresisting.     "  I  must  go,"  she  said ;  "  it  grows 

late.     Give "     I  could  have  sworn  for  fury 

at  the  breeze.  What  was  it  she  craved  ?  His 
love  and  kisses,  no  doubt.  Again  his  arms 
wound  round  her,  and  she  lay  unresisting  in 
them  while  he  covered  her  face  with  kisses.  I 
could  not  hear  their  farewells,  but  suddenly  she 
broke  from  him  and  went  running,  swift  as  a 
lapwing,  towards  home,  while  Cosmo  turned  and 
went  in  the  opposite  direction. 

It  seemed  to  me  that,  although  sh^  suffered 
his  caresses  without  resistance,  there  was  no 
happiness  in  the  meeting ;  for  at  the  corner  of 
the  path,  as  she  turned,  I  saw  that  she  was  still 
crying,  and,  if  I  know  aught  of  the  language 


"PUNCHINELLO"  223 

of  gesticulation,  her  outstretched  hands  spoke 
clearly  of  some  unfulfilled  desire.  He,  too, 
looked  back,  and  shook  his  head  and  laughed, 
as  one  who  kindly  denies  a  child  an  unreason- 
able request,  and  I  wondered  for  a  moment, 
striving  to  unravel  the  mystery.  But  I  could 
not  think  consecutively.  My  jealous  fury  meta- 
morphosed me  for  the  time  into  a  wild  beast. 
I  fell  on  the  ground  and  tore  the  earth  with 
my  hands,  while  my  brain  worked  blindly  in 
endeavour  to  compass  a  meet  revenge. 

Out  of  the  whirling  tangle  of  my  mind  a 
plan  slowly  evolved  itself,  and  showed  me  that 
I  could  at  least  defeat  his  designs.  If  not 
mine,  at  least  not  his.  Death,  the  merciless 
knife  that  cuts  knots  that  mock  man's  in- 
genuity ;  by  death  might  she  be  saved.  One 
or  the  other  must  go.  I  prayed  not  my  Nan. 
If  I  bided  my  hour,  some  chance  might  de- 
liver him  into  my  hand,  and  then  she  might 
spend  her  span  of  years  on  earth,  for  aught  I 
cared,  unharmed.  I  had  no  desire  to  send  her 
after  him  into  eternity — as  soon  should  she 
breathe  the  same  air  here  below.  Even  know- 
ing the  monstrous  wickedness  she  did,  my  heart 
cried  out  for  her,  as  memories  of  her  sweet 
presence  flooded  my  mind,  and  my  love,  that  I 


224  "PUNCHINELLO" 

had  thought  lay  dead,  leapt  up  victorious,  van- 
quishing my  anger  at  her  unfaithfulness  ;  and  I, 
who  but  a  moment  past  had  cursed  her,  now 
sought  excuse  for  her  wantonness,  and  found  it 
in  mine  own  infirmity  and  the  temptings  of 
the  devil  by  whose  wiles  she  had  fallen. 

What  was  I  to  hope  to  keep  a  woman's 
love — I,  Punchinello?  I  laughed  through  my 
tears,  and  the  mad  ring  of  gaiety  in  my  ears 
checked  my  merriment.  If  I  would  do  my 
work,  it  behoved  me  to  keep  sane  and  sober, 
and,  by  a  mighty  effort,  I  beat  back  the  mani- 
acal laughter  on  my  lips. 

Surely,  surely — and  I  moved  cautiously, 
making  no  alarm,  was  cunning  and  patient — 
my  desire  would  be  given  me,  and  I  should 
see  Cosmo  lying  stark  and  still,  with  all  the 
comeliness  gone  from  his  face  for  ever.  The 
glory  of  the  brief  spring  afternoon  died  to  wan 
twilight,  and  a  chill  fog  crept  up  from  the  far 
sea  and  lay  over  the  land,  lending  fantastic 
shapes  to  commonest  objects  and  drenching 
the  grass  heavily.  The  sinking  sun  hung  a 
gigantic  ruddy  ball  low  in  the  west,  a  ray 
struck  the  pale  mist,  lacing  it  with  scarlet,  till 
it  looked  streaked  with  blood.  But  I  did  not 
move ;  c&reless  of  time,  ^nd  loth  to  brec^k  the 


"PUNCHINELLO"  225 

returning  coherence  of  my  thoughts.  The 
reason  of  the  curious  pleadings  of  her  attitude 
that  I  had  noted,  and  could  not  fathom,  chimed 
in  my  ears — a  peal  rung  gaily  by  Satan — "  She 
prays  him  take  her  from  you."  He  is  cautious 
and  bids  her  wait,  saying,  "  Not  yet ;  not  yet." 
She  prays  him,  but  he  will  not ;  he  is  adamant 
to  her  tears  and  last  appeals.  "  Not  yet !  " — I 
smiled  to  myself  as  I  thought  how  far  better 
he  had  done  to  have  made  speedy  with  his 
prize.  The  coolness  of  head,  on  which  he  so 
relied,  had  for  once  lost  him  the  game.  I  had 
but  to  exercise  self-mastery,  and  the  victory 
was  mine.  I  forced  myself  to  keep  still  and 
quiet,  balancing  my  chances  one  against  the 
other,  while  the  shadows  deepened  and  the  sky 
began  to  hang  out  its  lights. 

They  say  in  their  ignorance  now  that  I  am 
mad.  Ah,  fools  !  I  was  mad  then,  as  I  sat  in 
that  wood  planning  a  murder,  lingering  on  my 
revenge  lovingly,  lest  I  mar  it  by  haste.  Mad — 
that  I  did  not  harbour,  for  the  flash  of  a  second, 
the  thought  of  my  wife's  innocence.  Mad — that 
when  in  the  mist-wreaths  I  seemed  to  see  her 
face,  innocent  as  I  had  known  it,  with  only  the 
shadow  of  a  great  terror  on  it,  I  mocked  and 
jeered,  pointing  scoffing  fingers  at  it.     Once  I 


226  "PUNCHINELLO" 

shrieked  the  foulest  name  with  which  a  woman 
can  be  smirched,  and  an  echo  leapt  in  answer. 

Then  I  laughed  and  cried  all  in  a  breath,  for 
it  seemed  as  if  the  wide  world  had  caught  wind 
of  her  shame  and  was  proclaiming  the  news. 
Side  by  side  with  this  fancy  I  embraced  the 
knowledge  that  I  held  the  power  to  save  her. 
If  he  should  escape  me — then  she  should  lie 
safe  in  the  warm  earth's  breast,  and  her  name 
be  kept  pure  at  any  cost.  It  has  been  said  by 
poets  and  women  that  hearts  break.  I  do  not 
know  whether  the  brain  burns  the  brighter  for 
this  sacrifice,  but  when  at  length  I  rose  and 
began  to  make  my  way  homeward,  it  seemed  to 
me  that  my  mental  powers  were  marvellously 
intensified,  and  that  all  my  emotions  lay  dead 
for  ever.  I  felt  myself  braced  by  an  iron  self- 
control.  I  could  have  watched  Cosmo  philan- 
dering with  Nan  and  made  no  sign.  What  did 
it  matter  now  my  path  lay  clear  before  me  ?  I 
buoyed  myself  with  the  knowledge  of  my  new 
strength — and  then,  all  in  a  moment,  the  sharp 
contrast  between  my  present  misery  and  the 
fair  happiness  that  I  had  thought  my  future 
life  would  hold  broke  my  resolution,  and  I  fell 
to  crying  bitter  tears  and  calling,  "  Nan ! — 
Nan ! "  like  any  weak  fool. 


"PUNCHINELLO''  227 

I  would  not  wait  on  this  hour  though  it 
holds  place  in  my  life,  but  as  I  write  I  know 
again  the  aching  desolation,  the  awful  loneli- 
ness. Tricked  and  fooled,  first  by  one  and 
then  another ;  scorned  by  God  and  man  alike  ; 
I  cursed  the  God  that  had  so  mocked  me 
and  the  folly  that  had  rendered  it  so  easy.  I, 
Punchinello,  wedded  to  one  of  the  fairest  maids 
in  England.  How  well  she  had  matched 
Cosmo,  had  they  mated  !  but  I,  poor  dwarf, 
stunted  semblance  of  a  man,  stood  between — 
I,  Punchinello,  so  aptly  named  in  the  long 
ago. 


XV 


WHEN  I  reached  home  that  night,  my 
wife  overwhelmed  me  with  caresses 
and  attentions,  commenting  the  while  on  my 
worn-out  appearance.  She  chatted  incessantly, 
questioning  me  as  to  where  I  had  spent  the 
afternoon,  and  without  waiting  for  an  answer 
telling  of  how  she  had  wandered  far  afield, 
careless  of  the  lapse  of  time. 

I  watched  her,  as  she  ministered  to  me,  with 
eyes  that  saw  her  with  a  clearer  vision.  Never 
had  she  seemed  so  winsome  to  me  as  she  ap- 
peared that  night,  and  never  had  she  appeared 
gayer.  I  had  no  difficulty  in  following  her 
mood,  giving  her  jest  for  jest,  and  capping  her 
nonsense  easily  enough — while,  even  as  the  light 
words  flowed,  my  brain  worked  steadily  at 
compassing  her  lover's  destruction,  with  suffi- 
cient craftiness  to  ensure  success. 

Once  my  attention  flagged  a  little  as  my 
thoughts  drifted  to  ways  and  means,  and  she 
checked  her  strain  of  gay  speech,  feigning  a 


"PUNCHINELLO"  229 

pouting  displeasure :  "  What  are  you  thinking 
of,  Tony?      You  afford  me  scant  attention." 

I  remember  that,  drawn  by  the  fascination 
that  tempts  moths  to  flutter  round  danger,  I 
could  not  forbear  alluding  in  cypher — so  to 
speak — to  the  knowledge  I  had  attained  in  the 
last  four-and-twenty  hours.  I  said  no  word  that 
could  have  afforded  a  clue  to  the  keenest  wits, 
but  I  played  a  little  with  my  sorrow,  mocking 
myself  as  men  will,  feeling  if  they  do  not  laugh 
they  must  go  mad. 

"  Scant  attention  ?  "  I  caught  the  words  sweet 
with  her  breath.  "  It  is  ill,"  I  said,  "  to  study  a 
woman  over-carefully — one  finds  flaws  in  the 
most  exquisite  creation.  For  myself,  I  look 
neither  forwards  nor  backwards,  but  enjoy,"  and 
I  slipped  my  arm  uxoriously  round  her  waist, 
and  smiled  at  her  with  a  simulated  pride  of 
possession,  watching  her  carefully  the  while  for 
some  symptom  of  betrayal. 

I  remember  this  time  down  to  its  smallest 
detail,  for  in  it,  by  what  I  regarded  as  vaguely 
exculpatory  words,  intended  to  allay  the  smart 
of  a  wounded  conscience,  my  Nan  finally 
damned  herself  in  my  eyes. 

"Look  forwards?  look  back?"  She  re- 
peated  my  words   after    me    much  as   I   had 


230  "PUNCHINELLO" 

repeated  her  own.  "  Must  a  woman  be  flawless 
to  be  loved  ?  "  she  asked ;  and  I  knew  whither 
her  mind  tended,  and  chuckled  with  my  breath. 
I  had  not  thought  to  hear  her  condemnation 
from  her  own  mouth. 

"  It  is  wiser,"  I  repeated,  "  when  close  inspect 
tion  is  fatal,  not  to  court  disillusion.  See  here  " 
— I  took  a  book  from  the  shelf  and  would  have 
read  her  an  allegory  which  I  have  always  loved 
— "  this  is  how  the  wise  behave."  But  she  in- 
terrupted me,  snatched  the  book  from  my 
hands  and  laughed  long  and  loud. 

"/will  read  it,  Tony — you  omit  too  generously 
when  scanning  printed  matter,  and  it  is  a  great 
matter  to  know  how  to  preserve  an  illusion. 
Shall  I  read  it  ? "  she  said,  looking  up  into  my 
face  from  the  low  chair  on  which  she  sat.  "  I 
will  do  it  justice  in  my  most  mellifluous  ac- 
cents." 

For  a  moment,  as  she  stood  before  me, 
her  perfect  face  not  a  foot  from  mine,  the 
fragrance  of  her  breath  in  my  nostrils,  the 
curve  of  her  bosom  swelling  beneath  her  close 
bodice,  I  feared  that  the  devils  I  held  in  leash 
would  prove  the  stronger.  As  I  looked  at  her 
they  rose  clamouring,  and  my  fingers  itched  to 
press  the  life  from  out   her   fair  body.      But 


"  PUNCHINELLO  "  231 

as  I  stared  at  her  the  fit  passed,  and  I  saw  the 
terror  in  her  face. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  said  brokenly.  "  Do  not 
look  at  me  like  that !  " 

Her  voice  calmed  me,  and  I  answered  her 
lightly,  pushing  the  book  towards  her. 

"  Read — read  !  '*  I  said,  and  kissed  her  on 
the  mouth,  where  so  lately  Cosmo's  caresses 
had  lain. 

She  took  the  book  and  commenced  the  tale, 
and  slowly,  as  she  read,  the  fever  in  my  brain 
subsided,  and  my  blood  ceased  to  run  in  such 
mad  tumult  through  my  veins.  I  will  write  the 
tale  she  read.  Every  line  is  informed  with  her 
voice.  As  I  gaze  on  the  dull  printed  lines,  I 
hear  the  clear  notes  and  see  her  again  with  bent 
head  reading  bravely  to  the  end,  breaking  off 
now  and  again  to  scoff.  Whatever  her  faults, 
she  was  of  a  rare  courage.  Hush  !  she  is  read- 
ing now ;  the  quick,  light  tone  of  her  voice  is 
sounding  in  my  ears ;    I  hear  her  clearly. 

The  Scarlet  Lily. 

In  her  garden  there  were  half-blown  buds 
flushing  rosily  through  their  green  sheaths,  and 
half-open  lily  cups  shyly  hiding  their  golden 
hearts. 


232  "  PUNCHINELLO  " 

On  the  trees  the  young  leaves  quivered  a  pale 
green,  or  lay  curled  in  soft  knots  upon  the 
boughs,  slowly  breaking  into  life.  There  were 
tiny  shoots  just  showing  above  the  rich  brown 
earth,  and  here  and  there  the  beds  were  broken 
up  by  masses  of  purple  and  gold,  where  pansies 
glinted  in  the  sunlight. 

She  walked  unheeding  among  the  beds,  and 
stopped  before  a  large  scarlet  bud  that  shot  up 
from  among  the  dark  green  leaves  which  veiled 
its  perfection. 

"  My  choice ! "  she  whispered  ;  "  my  heart's 
desire ! " 

She  pressed  her  lips  to  the  flower,  and  under 
her  warm  breath  the  petals  of  the  bud  quivered 
and  wavered  a  shade  apart,  showing  in  some 
degree  the  nascent  beauty  within. 

She  breathed  away  a  grain  of  dust  that  had 
fallen  on  the  glossy  calyx,  and  broke  apart  an 
overhanging  branch,  so  that  nothing  could  come 
between  her  flower  and  the  sunshine. 

And  day  by  day,  as  she  tended  it,  the  plant 
grew  in  strength  and  beauty,  flooding  the  garden 
in  its  overpowering  fragrance.  The  butterflies 
floated  round  it  in  gaily-painted  hordes,  paying 
it  court  as  it  stood  swaying  in  the  breeze,  like  a 
queen  acknowledging  homage. 


*'  PUNCHINELLO  "  233 

Round  it  the  maiden  cleared  away  the  grasses 
that  threatened  to  choke  up  the  ground,  in  order 
that  the  roots  should  spread  out  freely,  and 
watched  it  hourly,  with  the  tender  loving  eyes 
of  a  mother  for  her  firstborn. 

Through  the  long  nights  she  lay  on  the  ground 
beside  it,  lest  it  open  in  the  darkness  and  she 
lose  the  flowering  of  her  desire,  watching  and 
waiting  until  she  grew  pale  and  wan  with 
deferred  hope. 

Round  her,  sun-kissed  and  wind-caressed,  the 
other  flowers  flourished  in  a  great  luxuriance, 
but  they  were  forgotten — in  her  passion  she 
never  noted  or  cared. 

Above  her  head  there  swung  a  quivering 
canopy  of  green,  through  which  the  sky  showed 
like  patches  of  blue  mosaic  among  the  tracery  of 
leaf  and  branch,  but  she  never  looked  higher  than 
the  height  of  the  scarlet  lily. 

One  night,  worn  out  with  long  watching,  she 
slept,  and  when  she  awoke  the  bud  had  opened ; 
and  she  cried  out  aloud  with  great  joy,  and 
knelt  before  it  in  worship,  half-blind  with  its 
dazzling  beauty,  and  drunk  with  her  great 
gladness. 

But  even  as  she  knelt,  from  out  the  heart 
of  the  flower  crawled  a  worm — another — and 


234  *^  PUNCHINELLO'* 

yet  another;  and  she  saw  that  her  pride,  her. 
desire,  was  decayed  and  corrupt  within — a  foul 
thing  from  which  she  shrank  and  shuddered. 

And  as  she  lay  on  the  ground,  crying  with 
great  sobs,  a  white  rose — a  poor,  pale  bud — bent 
its  head  down  to  her  face  and  whispered,  "  Take 
comfort ;  it  is  so  poor  a  thing  for  which  to 
grieve — so  fair  without,  so  foul  within.  Love 
me  ! "  But  the  girl  pushed  it  impatiently  away, 
and  cried  again,  refusing  to  be  comforted. 

And  then  she  saw  that  from  where  she  had 
flung  herself  in  her  passionate  recoil,  and  lay 
looking  through  her  blinding  tears,  the  decay 
was  no  longer  visible,  and  the  flower  flamed 
scarlet  and  perfect  in  the  golden  flooding  sun- 
light, as  fair  as  the  lily  of  her  dreams. 

Now  the  tears  dried  on  her  face,  as  its  beauty 
struck  her  afresh  with  a  great  thrill ;  she  felt 
the  old  love  return,  and  was  comforted,  and  lay 
keeping  guard  over  it  in  the  distance,  never 
venturing  too  near. 

But  in  a  few  days  she  could  discern  its  grow- 
ing decay  from  even  that  point ;  but  this  time 
she  had  learnt  wisdom,  and  instead  of  lament- 
ing, moved  hurriedly  a  few  steps  further  away, 
and  fell  again  to  its  adoration. 

And  as  the  days  passed,  she  moved  further 


"  PUNCHINELLO  "  235 

and  further  away,  until  the  flower  was  only  a  red 
patch  in  the  grey  distance  ;  but  she  looked  at  it 
with  loving  eyes,  casting  away  all  thought  of  its 
honour,  and  seeing  only  the  beauty. 

The  roses  raised  their  pink  faces  to  her,  and 
touched  the  air  with  their  fragrant  whispering : 
"  Hearken  to  us,  whose  beauty  is  not  only  seem- 
ing "  ;  but  she  turned  away. 

The  proud,  pure  lilies  bowed  their  stately 
heads  as  she  passed,  turning  the  silken  sheen  of 
their  snowy  petals  towards  her ;  but  she  would 
none  of  them,  and  gazed  always,  with  tired, 
shining  eyes,  at  the  flower  she  loved  so  well. 

Time  passed  on,  and  she  grew  old  and  grey, 
but  still  she  gazed  at  the  same  spot,  although 
the  lily  had  long  since  fallen,  and  lay  on  the 
ground  in  festering  corruption. 

But  the  woman  looked  always  towards  the 
place  where  it  had  waved  triumphant  in  the 
light  and  air  ;  and  as  time  passed,  she  forgot 
the  things  she  had  seen,  and  how,  day  by  day, 
she  had  shrunk  back  for  fear  of  what  she  might 
behold ;  and  again  she  saw  the  tall  crimson 
bud  in  its  glowing  beauty,  and  her  heart 
throbbed  as  she  yearned  afresh  for  the  hour 
of  its  unfolding. 


236  "  PUNCHINELLO '» 

"  That  woman  was  a  fool,"  said  my  wife,  with 
a  touch  of  bitterness.  "If  one  has  been  tricked, 
it  is  well  to  cast  away  the  worthless  rag.  The 
heroine  is  aptly  feminine.  It  takes  a  woman 
to  go  on  loving  when  she  understands.  No 
man  condones,"  and  she  looked  at  me  with  a 
challenge  in  her  face.  "  This  sickly  fable  illus- 
trates the  attitude  of  women  from  all,  time.  No 
man  forgives,"  she  went  on,  and  her  voice  broke 
suddenly,  while  I  stared  at  her,  wondering  what 
her  next  words  would  hold.  But  in  a  flash  her 
mood  changed. 

"  The  maid  was  passing  foolish — the  tale  was 
passing  long.  I  would  rather  waste  my  breath 
on  this,"  and  she  took  up  a  book  of  verses  that 
lay  at  my  side.  "  Hearken,  Tony, — by  such 
symptoms  shall  a  man  recognise  the  tender 
passion.  It  seems  a  prodigious  waste  of  emo- 
tion. Didst  ever  *thy  soul  in  numbers  move,' 
Tony  ?  Nay — more  like  in  chromatics  !  Now 
listen ! 

"Once  did  my  thoughts  both  ebb  and  flow, 
As  passion  did  them  move  ; 
Once  did  I  hope — straight  fear  again — 
And  then  I  was  in  love. 

Once  did  I,  waking,  spend  the  night, 
And  tell  how  many  minutes  move. 


"  PUNCHINELLO  "  237 

Once  did  I,  wishing,  waste  the  day — 
And  then  I  was  in  love. 

Once,  by  my  carving  true-love's  knot, 

The  weeping  tones  did  prove 
That  wounds  and  tears  were  both  our  lot — 

And  then  I  was  in  love. 

Once  did  I  breathe  another's  breath, 

And  in  my  mistress  move  ; 
Once  was  I  not  mine  own  at  all — 

And  then  I  was  in  love. 

Once  I  wore  bracelets  made  of  hair, 

And  collars  did  approve ; 
Once  wore  my  clothes  made  out  of  wax— 

And  then  I  was  in  love. 

Once  did  I  sonnet  to  my  saint. 

My  soul  in  numbers  move ; 
Once  did  I  tell  a  thousand  lies — 

And  then  I  was  in  love. 

Once  in  my  ear  did  dangling  hang 

A  little  turtle-dove  ; 
Once,  in  a  word,  I  was  a  fool— 

And  then  I  was  in  love.** 

She  finished  with  a  trill  of  merriment,  and 
would  have  kissed  me  ;  but  my  self-control  was 
strained  to  its  uttermost  limit,  and  I  could  only 
push  her  from  me  in  dumb  passion. 

She  feigned  to  notice  nothing,  only  saying 
petulantly:  "Methinks  you  are  turning  sage — 


23B  "PUNCHINELLO" 

at  least  you  are  no  longer  a  fool  by  reason  of 
being  in  love,"  and,  pleading  something  of 
fatigue,  left  me.  Her  eyes  were  misty,  for 
all  her  gay  smile.  Ah,  God !  the  lash  of 
memory!  She  would  have  kissed  me,  and  I 
would  not ! 


XVI 

FOR  another  week  or  so  life  flowed  on  evenly, 
Granby's  name  never  passing  between  us 
by  a  tacit  agreement  that  needed  no  putting 
into  words.  I  was  waiting,  and  she  ? — God 
knows  what  lay  beneath  the  froth  of  her  gaiety 
and  her  never-failing  mirth.  Sometimes  I  read  a 
shadow  in  her  eyes  and  surmised  that  she  was 
impatient  of  the  deferred  hour  that  should  bring 
her  lover  ;  her  speech  was  informed  with  a  touch 
of  bitterness  foreign  to  it,  which  lent  keener  edge 
to  her  sayings,  and  in  some  indefinable  way  I  felt 
that  for  all  her  jocundity  she  had  parted  with  her 
youth,  and  looked  on  life  with  sadder  eyes. 

"We  see  little  of  Granby,"  I  said  carelessly 
one  day.  I  spoke  tentatively,  vaguely  conscious 
that  my  murderous  intent  were  easier  were  he 
unsuspicious,  also  hounded  on  by  a  sick  desire 
to  see  them  together  and  watch  them  at  my  ease, 
yet  fearful  of  awakening  mistrust  by  too  sudden 
a  change  of  front.  Nan  regarded  me  curiously, 
and  turned  away  with  a  laugh  on  her  mouth.     I 


240  "PUNCHINELLO" 

could  see  that  she  was  acting,  for  her  eyes  had  a 
curious  watchful  stillness  in  them  and  her  lips 
smiled  as  if  twitched  to  merriment  by  force. 

"  For  my  part  I  care  not  whether  he  comes  or 
goes,"  she  answered  lightly  enough,  though  her 
voice  had  a  strained  note  in  it. 

"  No  ? "  I  said,  my  gaze  rivetted  on  her  face 
to  note  if  she  blanched  or  flushed. 

Her  eyes  lifted  and  met  mine,  and  for  one 
moment  my  vile  thoughts  fled  as  the  darkness 
before  the  spreading  whiteness  of  dawn,  and  I 
knew  her  innocent.  But  even  as  I  looked  she 
spoke,  and  my  suspicions  returned  strengthened 
a  thousand-fold. 

"Do  not  anger  him,"  she  said.  The  water 
brimmed  in  her  eyes.  "  O  God  !  O  God  !  "  she 
cried  and  fell  to  weeping  tempestuously.  For  all 
the  black  fury  in  my  heart  I  could  not  bear  her 
crying ;  I  tried  to  comfort  her,  and  then  she  flung 
herself  before  me,  and  it  seemed  as  though  she 
trembled  on  the  verge  of  a  confession.  Yet  I 
had  accused  her  in  no  way. 

Looking  back,  it  seems  to  me  incomprehensible 
that  I  should  not  have  guessed  that  she  was 
oppressed  with  a  great  sorrow ;  but  I  was  full  of 
my  own  explanation  of  her  griefs  and  tempers, 
and   never    dreamed   of   another    key  to    the 


"PUNCHINELLO"  241 

mystery.  I  noticed  that  she  began  to  grow 
white  and  wan.  Often  in  her  sleep  she  would 
speak  Granby's  name  and  fall  to  sobbing  in  her 
dreams,  while  I  lay  beside  her  alert  to  hear,  and 
smiling  in  the  darkness  as  she  called  on  her 
lover. 

My  one  idea  possessed  me  to  the  exclusion 
of  all  others — to  kill  Granby,  and  if  possible  in 
such  manner  as  to  make  the  manner  of  his  death 
seem  accidental,  thereby  avoiding  an  inquiry 
that  might  result  in  the  blackening  of  my  wife's 
name. 

His  visits  had  re-commenced.  He  was  for 
ever  in  our  house  making  open  love  to  my  wife, 
while  she  would  sit  smiling  on  him,  yet  with 
terror  in  her  eyes — and  I  waited. 

I  waited  and  waited  till  the  summer  flushed 
the  land  and  the  spring  lay  far  behind  us,  and 
still  I  waited  patiently.  I  pressed  his  hand  in 
greeting,  and  never  showed  by  deed  or  word 
that  his  presence  was  unwelcome  or  that  I  knew 
of  his  clandestine  meetings  with  my  wife.  I 
was  ever  the  genial  host,  pressing  him  to  join  us, 
throwing  him  with  Nan,  and  always  I  waited  for 
my  chance. 

But  it  never  came  for  all  my  waiting  ;  or 
perhaps  more  truly  I    lacked   the  tenacity  of 

Q 


242  "PUNCHINELLO" 

purpose  necessary  for  such  work  as  I  contem- 
plated. 

It  grew  hourly  more  difficult  to  play  my  part, 
and  to  preserve  the  appearance  of  ignorant 
placidity  that  was  so  essential — the  facile  smile, 
the  ready  words.  In  place  of  these  it  seemed 
to  me  sometimes  that  the  beast  in  me  must  win 
and  I  spring  suddenly  at  Cosmo's  throat  while 
he  bent  towards  my  wife,  speaking  to  her  in 
that  semi-whisper  he  affected,  and  which  eter- 
nally suggested  confidential  words.  Still  I 
might  have  kept  up  the  play  a  little  longer  had 
it  not  been  for  news  that  my  wife  brought  me 
one  morning.  She  came  to  me  looking  with 
great  frightened  eyes  out  of  her  white  face  that 
had  grown  to  look  so  small  and  drawn  in 
these  last  few  months,  and  I  was  arrested  by 
a  curious  change  in  her  expression.  Lately 
she  had  been  alternating  between  the  gayest 
and  saddest  moods,  each  of  which  left  an 
evanescent  mark  on  her  face,  but  now  she 
looked  somewhat  awe-struck  and  glad  with  a 
solemn  joy. 

"  Anthony  !  "  she  said,  and  the  warm  pink  ran 
racing  to  her  cheeks.     "  Anthony  ! " 

I  stared  at  her  impatiently,  for  lately  I  had 
grown  to  hate  her  presence,  and  never  more  than 


"  PUNCHINELLO  "  243 

when  she  simulated  love  for  me.  "  Anthony  I " 
she  said  again  with  despair  in  her  voice,  as  I 
glared  at  her  with  hard,  incurious  eyes, — "An- 
thony, we  shall  soon  be  three." 

And  then — God  forgive  me  ! — I  fell  to  laugh- 
ing, for  I  harboured  no  doubt  as  to  the  begetter 
of  her  child,  and  it  seemed  to  me  the  supremest 
irony  that  she  should  come  to  me  with  her 
flushings  and  paleings,  whispering  of  the  coming 
third.  And  she  fell  back  a  pace  with  a  look  in 
her  eyes  of  one  wounded  to  death.  "  Anthony," 
she  said  again,  and  put  out  her  hand  and  touched 
me  timidly  on  the  sleeve,  and  I  shook  her  off  in 
a  sudden  access  of  passion. 

"  Have  you  no  shame  ?  "  I  flung  at  her. 

She  fell  at  my  feet  in  a  swoon.  I  could  not 
trust  myself,  and  calling  the  maids  to  attend 
her  I  left  the  house  and  sought  peace  in  solitude, 
striving  to  regain  my  lapsed  self-control.  My 
reason  rocked  as  I  realized  my  full  impotence. 
Though  I  forbid  him  the  house,  I  knew  he  would 
meet  her  elsewhere.  If  I  took  her  away,  he 
would  follow.  Money  was  nothing  to  him.  The 
gratification  of  his  desire  was  the  end  and  aim 
of  his  life.  His  life !  his  life !  I  had  gladly 
followed  him  into  the  future  would  it  have 
aided  me  to  terminate  his  existence.     But   at 


244  "PUNCHINELLO" 

least  he  should  not  have  Nan.  Lost  to  me — 
she  should  be  lost  to  him.  He  was  impregnable, 
secure  from  my  assaults.  The  last  few  weeks  it 
seemed  as  if  he  had  read  what  was  passing  in 
my  mind,  for  I  had  caught  his  eyes  fixed  on  me 
uneasily  once  or  twice,  and  he  came  less  often  to 
our  house,  but  I  knew  that  she  often  met  him. 
I  used  to  follow  them  and  sit  and  watch  them 
in  the  grey  gloaming,  and  count  his  kisses  and 
her  tears.  Why  did  she  weep  ?  I  often 
wondered.  A  handsome  lover  abroad  and  an 
easy  dupe — as  she  thought — at  home. 

Can  any  woman  want  more  ?  I  was  indeed 
ungainly,  but  my  name  served  her  as  protection, 
my  house  as  home,  so  even  I  served  a  purpose 
and  was,  with  the  exception  of  rare  outbursts, 
sufficiently  ductile. 

So  in  my  thoughts  I  would  mock  myself  and 
her,  but  most  the  vanity  that  had  brought  me 
to  this  pass,  and  led  me  to  reckon  that  I  could 
win  and  hold,  like  happier  men.  She  had 
loathed  me  somewhat  less  than  the  aged  rip  to 
whom  her  aunt  would  have  given  her ;  perhaps, 
to  be  fair,  she  had  felt  something  of  kindliness 
towards  me — the  pity  that  is  akin  to  love — and  I 
in  my  madness  had  snatched  at  it,  half  afraid  of 
the  magnitude  of  tlie  gift  vouchsafed   me.     I 


"PUNCHINELLO"  245 

blamed  her  not  What  was  I  to  hold  a  woman's 
love  ?  Like  to  like — they  matched  each  other 
well ;  but  he  should  never  take  her  from  me — 
never — never. 


XVII 

I  STRIVE  to  write  coherently,  but  my  pulses 
race  when  I  linger  on  this  time  ;  and  for  all 
my  endeavour  to  sort  a  right  incident  and  emo- 
tion I  stand  confused  before  the  tide  of  mixed 
remembrance,  glad  and  sad,  that  sweeps  every- 
thing before  it.  Yet  I  would  write  with  stable 
hand,  and  fling  my  life  on  the  page  precisely  as 
it  passed. 

Now  I  tell  what  cannot  be  explained  by  strict 
laws  of  logic,  viz. :  that  inasmuch  as  I  suspected 
in  darker  moments  the  paternity  of  the  embryo 
life  that  Nan  carried,  my  heart  went  out  to  her  in 
her  difficult  hour  as  it  had  never  done  in  her 
happiest  days.  I  had  loved  her  gay  and  flippant, 
with  her  unerring  shaft  of  speech,  her  fresh 
beauty,  her  light  laughter,  but  I  loved  her  better 
now  with  her  tired  eyes  and  dragging  gait.  In 
my  heart  there  came  a  desire  to  believe  in  her 
again.  I  do  not  know  what  had  checked  me 
from  voicing  my  suspicions  to  her,  but  it  was 
hardly  fear.    Now  that  time  has  rendered  lumin- 

946 


"PUNCHINELLO"  247 

ous  the  days  of  my  sorrow,  I  fancy  I  dreaded 
hearing  her  confess  her  sin  ;  and  clung  to  some 
shadowy  hope,  the  existence  of  which  I  barely 
recognised.  But  one  night  when  we  sat  in  the 
gloaming  without,  talking,  as  had  come  to  be 
our  habit,  with  an  assumption  of  ease  that 
deceived  neither  of  us,  she  made  some  careless 
jest,  and  I  heard  the  rain  of  falling  tears  through 
her  laughter,  and  knew  that  silence  was  no 
longer  possible.  There  came  a  hush  in  our 
speech,  and  we  looked  into  each  other's  eyes, 
and  I  knew  her  innocent. 

"  What  has  come  between  us,  Tony  ? "  she 
said,  and  with  the  old  familiar  gesture  her  face 
nestled  on  my  shoulder.  "  I  am  miserable, 
Anthony,"  and  her  cry — Christ  forgive  me — 
was  as  the  sobbing  of  a  strayed  child. 

For  the  moment  the  devil  in  my  heart  rested, 
and  I  knew  that  she  was  pure  for  all  the  black 
evidence  against  her.  She  was  young  and  care- 
less, irresponsible,  irreflective,  but  white  as  the 
angels.  I  knew  it  for  the  moment,  and  took  her 
in  my  arms,  comforting  her,  and  praying  her 
tell  me  her  trouble ;  and  before  I  knew  it 
Granby's  name  was  out  of  my  mouth,  and  she 
was  shuddering  and  trembling  so  that  she  could 
barely  speak. 


248  "  PUNCHINELLO  " 

"  Anthony,  Anthony ! "  I  hear  her  now,  and 
the  breath  of  lips  long  dead  is  warm  on  my 
face.  " Do  not  ask  me,"  she  cried :  "I  am 
ashamed,  ashamed." 

"Of  what?"  Still  I  held  her  in  my  arms, 
loth  to  let  her  go,  believing  in  her,  though  my 
heart  grew  heavy  at  her  words.  "Of  what ? "  I 
said  impatiently,  for  as  every  minute  flitted  it 
grew  more  difficult  to  combat  my  growing 
terror.  **0f  what?"  I  repeated  harshly,  and 
shook  her  not  too  gently  by  the  arm.  "Tell 
me,  or  shall  I  ask  Granby?" 

She  made  no  answer  to  my  foul  insinuation, 
but  twisted  herself  free  of  my  embrace,  and 
would  have  gone  swiftly  into  the  house,  leaving 
me  to  my  bitter  thoughts,  had  I  not  stayed 
her ;  and  in  a  great  flood  there  leapt  out  the  tale 
of  what  I  had  witnessed,  while  she  stared  at  me, 
aghast  at  my  knowledge. 

"  You  think "  she  began,  and  could  not 

finish  for  very  shame,  while  I  vainly  awaited  the 
words  that  should  explain  the  mystery. 

"  What  had  your  father  said  ? "  I  asked,  filled 
with  scorn  for  the  name  by  which  I  sought  to 
conjure  her,  yet  grasping  at  any  means  to  make 
her  speak.  But  she,  with  sobbing  breath,  bade 
me  never  speak  of  him  again,  and  broke  away 


"PUNCHINELLO'*  24$ 

I  let  her  go,  perceiving,  finally,  the  futility  of 
endeavouring  to  coerce  her ;  but  as  she  went  the 
tiny  flame  of  my  hope  was  extinguished,  and  I 
knew  her  for  what  she  was. 


A  few  days  passed,  in  which,  to  the  best  of 
my  belief,  she  had  not  met  him.  I  watched  her 
with  unnecessary  vigilance,  for  I  knew  that 
shortly  he  would  bid  her  seek  him  at  his  house, 
and  that  she  would  go  ;  but  it  seemed  as  if  we  all 
waited  in  the  hush  of  a  coming  storm. 

Then  one  night,  goaded  by  a  passion  that 
turned  my  brain  to  madness,  and  in  which  all 
prudential  considerations  were  lost,  I  went  and 
waited  for  him  at  his  gates,  meaning  to  shoot 
him  as  a  dog ;  but  though  I  waited  long,  until 
the  darkness  lay  like  a  heavy  pall  on  the  earth, 
he  did  not  come,  and  I  went  home  baffled, 
praying  patience. 

Nan  met  me  on  my  return,  and  in  her  I  noted 
a  subtle  change.  She  seemed  the  Nan  I  had 
known  in  the  past,  with  the  shadow  lifted  from 
her  eyes,  and  some  of  the  old  joyous  timbre  in 
her  voice. 

"  Ooterwint  is  here  ! "  her  voice  came  gaily  to 
me.     "Where   have  you   been,   Anthony — lost 


^50  "PUNCHINELLO" 

afield  ? "  And  I  wondered  at  her,  learned 
though  I  was  in  her  sudden  changes  of  mood. 

I  brushed  past  her,  fearing  her  eyes,  and 
greeted  Ooterwint,  who  stood  behind  her  with 
his  wig  pushed  awry,  and  his  face  eloquent  of 
great  tidings. 

"  Pack  in  haste,  Master  Anthony,"  he  said  to 
me  hurriedly,  not  heeding  my  greeting.  "  You 
must  be  in  Town  before  the  week  is  passed,"  and 
then  burst  into  jubilant  predictions,  jumbling 
possibilities  and  probabilities,  talk  of  honours 
and  the  necessity  of  speedy  travelling,  in  hetero- 
geneous speech.  At  length  from  very  lack  of 
breath  he  was  forced  to  pause,  and  I  turned  to 
Nan,  seeking  an  explanation. 

"  He  says  that  you  have  a  fair  chance  of 
being  elected  organist  at  the  Abbey."  Her 
eyes  met  mine,  glad  with  congratulation,  yet 
with  something  of  withholding  in  their  gaze,  as 
if  she  feared  me,  and  watched  warily  lest  she 
offend. 

"  You  must  be  in  Town  as  soon  as  possible." 
Old  Ooterwint  was  himself  again,  and  his  words 
flowed  fluently.  "Why  not  you  as  well  as 
another?  But  you  must  catch  the  hour  and 
get  the  ear  of  His  Majesty.  The  affair  will  be 
settled  in  two  months  at  farthest.     Ah!   poor 


"PUNCHINELLO"  251 

Hermann ! "  he  flung  in  tribute  to  the  dead, 
"  to  think  that  he  should  be  no  more  ; "  and  here 
he  fetched  a  portentous  sigh  in  a  regret  that 
for-  all  its  voluminous  expression  sounded  fic- 
titious. "  And  madam  here," — he  made  my  wife 
a  handsome  bow,  and  smiled  brightly,  but  I 
noted  that  his  jocundity  was  somewhat  forced, 
and  I  puzzled  what  he  knew  or  guessed, — "  And 
madam,"  he  repeated,  "  does  she  go  to  see  the 
fashions  ?  You  will  accompany  him  ?  "  he  asked. 
His  gaze  swept  over  her,  and  it  seemed  to  me 
his  eyes  grew  strangely  pitiful.  And  yet  at 
that  moment  she  seemed  no  mark  for  com- 
passion. Her  cheeks  were  pink — painted  with 
excitement — her  eyes  bright,  her  pretty  face 
all  aglow. 

"Of  course  I  go,"  she  answered  him,  and 
would  have  laid  her  hand  on  mine,  but  I 
shrank  back  involuntarily,  and  her  hand  fell  by 
her  side.  Oh !  Nan — Nan  !  Then  she  winced, 
as  if  stung,  but  recovered  herself  gallantly,  and 
turned  again  to  Ooterwint,  and  talked  and 
laughed  as  if  she  were  ignorant  of  all  care ;  but 
I  had  seen  her  lips  blanch,  and  knew  that  she 
understood. 


XVIII 

HAD  it  not  been  for  Ooterwint's  unflagging 
entreaties  and  commands,  I  doubt  if  I 
had  gone  to  London  at  this  time,  for  all  the 
golden  opportunity  I  should  be  missing. 

The  bent  of  my  life  was  changed,  and  my 
ambitions  were  sapped  and  dead.  I  had  no 
place  for  any  emotion  but  the  jealousy  that  de- 
voured me  and  the  hunger  of  revenge.  Time 
had  be^n  when  I  had  spent  many  days  and 
nights,  my  brain  fruitlessly  planning  and  calcu- 
lating how  to  strike  at  Granby  without  slurring 
my  wife's  name.  Now  I  would  have  shot  him 
in  full  glare  of  noon,  and  laughed  to  hear  them 
talk. 

But  it  seemed  as  though  he  had  divined  my 
thoughts,  and  evaded  me.  I  watched  my  wife 
as  a  cat  does  a  mouse,  but  they  apparently 
appreciated  their  danger,  and  either  endured  a 
temporary  severance,  or  had  discovered  a  way 
of  meeting  unknown  to  me.  Myself  I  believe 
that  he  was  content  for  the  nonce  to  let  her  be, 


"PUNCHINELLO"  253 

knowing  that  he  had  but  to  lift  his  hand,  and 
she  would  come  to  him.  He  was  by  nature 
cool  and  wary,  and  of  a  never-failing  patience 
where  his  ends  were  concerned.  I  imagined 
him  smiling  quietly  to  himself  at  his  facile 
success  ;  he  was  no  hot-headed  fool  to  risk  his 
life  or  impede  his  wishes  by  a  too  hasty  clear- 
ance of  impediment,  else  long  ago  he  had 
brushed  me  from  his  path,  I  knew.  I  was  mad 
— mad  as  any  poor  soul  in  Bedlam,  tortured  be- 
yond endurance,  and  the  keenest  pang  of  my 
anguish  was  the  great  love  I  bore  her,  that 
seemed  to  grow  and  strengthen  in  proportion  as 
she  became  lost  to  me.  I  had  indeed  my  hours 
when  I  hated  her,  when  I  flung  bitter  taunts 
and  foul  accusations,  not  choosing  my  words 
over-carefully  ;  but  surely  her  sobbing  would 
close  my  lips,  and  always  in  my  extremest 
bitterness  there  lurked  the  cruel  knowledge  that 
I  had  done  her  an  irrevocable  wrong  when  I 
took  her  to  wife.  Yet  before  God  I  had 
dreamed  that  she  loved  me. 

When  at  last  Ooterwint  prevailed,  and  I  con- 
sented to  go  to  Town,  her  delight  knew  no 
bounds.  In  my  blindness  I  believed  that  it  was 
due  to  the  increased  opportunities  it  would 
afford    her    of    meeting    Granby,  who    would 


254  "  PUNCHINELLO  " 

assuredly  follow  her.     I   was   mad,  mad — and 

now  it  is  too  late. 

«  «  «  4^  « 

We  had  been  in  Town  the  best  part  of  a  week, 
and  the  ultimatum  regarding  the  rival  merits  of 
the  candidates  were  still  in  abeyance.  It  was  a 
coveted  post,  and  there  was  much  talk  of  fav- 
ouritism and  influence,  of  angry  jealousies,  and 
so  forth— at  least,  so  I  read  in  that  exquisite 
biography.  Myself  I  remember  only  Nan. 
Vaguely,  indeed,  lies  in  my  mind  the  remem- 
brance of  interviews  and  writings,  of  hearing 
eager  talk,  but  it  is  all  more  or  less  misty.  But 
clear  as  yesterday,  indeed  more  sharply,  I  mind 
each  word  and  laugh  of  my  wife's,  her  quick 
interest,  her  gay  delight.  I  mind  how  I  winced 
under  curious  eyes  when  we  walked  abroad  ; 
she  so  fair  and  gracious,  I ! 

She  seemed  to  have  flung  the  untoward  past 
behind  her  for  the  hour,  and  seized  with  avidity 
such  chance  of  gaiety  as  her  health  permitted. 
And  I  noted  that  wherever  she  went  men's  eyes 
lingered  on  her,  telling  the  same  tale  that  was 
written  in  Cosmo's  gaze  that  winter  afternoon. 
^^  For  jealousy  is  cruel  as  the  graved  The 
sombre  line  haunted  me,  eternally  whispering  in 
the  stir  and  sunshine  of  the  streets,  speaking  to 


"PUNCHINELLO"  255 

me  in  the  silent  night  as  I  lay  beside  her ;  she, 

tossing  restlessly  and  babbling  of  Cosmo,  her 

vigilance  of  the  day  availing  her  nothing. 
«  #  »  «  « 

Sometimes,  when  tortured  beyond  endurance, 
I  strive  to  wring  comfort  from  the  thought  that 
it  was  she  who  planned  that  pleasure-trip  on 
the  river.  At  first  I  would  not  consent  to  take 
her.  Why,  I  cannot  say,  for  I  always  humoured 
her  every  whim  ;  and  when  she  pressed  me  for 
the  why  and  wherefore  of  my  refusal,  I  could 
not  ascribe  it  to  any  valid  reason.  An  invinc- 
ible repugnance  bade  me  negative  her  prayers, 
and  please  God,  had  I  only  been  firm  to  the 
end  .  .  .  but  finally  I  succumbed  to  her 
entreaties. 

It  was  a  gay  day,  trenching  on  the  final  lease 
of  summer,  when  we  drifted  down  the  sleepy 
river,  my  sculls  dropping  slowly  on  the  leaden 
water.  Some  two  years  past,  much  in  this 
environment,  I  had  been  duped  by  Mistress 
Marjory.  As  the  remembrance  crossed  my 
mind  I  fell  to  laughing  loudly,  thinking  that 
this  time  I  was  not  so  easily  fooled,  and  Nancy 
turned  and  looked  at  me  curiously  with  fright- 
ened eyes. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  asked. 


256  "PUNCHINELLO" 

Nothing,"  I  said,  and  laughed  again,  while 
she  turned  away  with  the  old  wan  look  of 
trouble  on  her  face ;  but  it  was  gone  in  a 
moment,  and  she  was  teasing  me  to  near  the 
bank  to  enable  her  to  tear  away  a  bunch  of 
guelder-rose.  My  mental  picture  gallery  is  set 
with  memories  of  that  day.  I  see  her  dragging 
the  bough  ruthlessly  back,  standing  in  a  white 
shower  of  scattered  bloom,  with  face  dimpling 
with  smiles  at  my  remonstrances.  I  see  her 
stacking  her  hands  with  forget-me-nots,  pushing 
a  posy  into  my  coat,  jesting  all  the  while,  fore- 
stalling the  terror  to  come,  in  gay  teasing  speech. 
"  How  long  would  I  live  in  your  thoughts,  Tony 
— an  the  river  took  me,  as  was  the  sad  fate  of 
the  maid  in  the  legend,  and  I  flung  you  a 
remembrance? — your  Nan  of  the  past  would 
be  lost  in  the  oratorio  of  the  future."  And 
I,  striving  to  meet  her  mood,  denied  it  not, 
but  made  merry  with  her,  while  mocking  Death 
stood  by  waiting. 

She  was  not  feigning — I  know  it.  I  cannot, 
I  will  not  doubt  it.  She  had  a  happy  hour 
before  the  end.  Oh,  my  beloved,  to  feel  that 
you  did  not  go,  glad  to  leave  me,  broken 
by  a  burden  too  heavy  for  your  bearing  ;  to 
know  that  there  were  no  false  notes  in  your 


"PUNCHINELLO"  257 

laughter,  no  undercurrent  of  meaning  in  your 
careless  words.  "  How  long  shall  I  live  in  your 
thoughts,  an  the  river  take  me  ?  "  How  long  ? 
Eternity  shall  reply.  Are  you  answered  now, 
my  sweetheart?  Your  remembrance  is  naught 
but  a  tiny  shre'd  of  withered  weed,  a  skeleton 
thing  half  gone  to  dust,  but  to  me  it  is  blue 
with  flowers  and  dripping  damply  when  I  stare 
at  it.  I  feel  an  impatient  hand  thrusting  itself 
against  me,  and  hear  a  petulant  voice  in  clam- 
orous insistence.  Your  touch  was  very  sure, 
my  Nan  ;  did  you  know  it  was  a  parting  gift, 
that  you  fixed  it  so  firmly  and  would  not  be 
gainsaid  ? 

We  had  brought  our  meal  with  us,  having 
thought  not  to  touch  land  until  the  day  was 
spent,  and  we  ate  and  drank  together,  making 
merry  as  two  lovers,  and  never  a  shadow  of 
what  had  marred  our  life  for  so  many  weeks 
darkened  that  day.  Later  it  seemed  to  me  as  if 
some  premonition  of  what  the  future  held  must 
have  unconsciously  influenced  us  to  greedy 
ravishment  of  the  flying  hours,  bidding  us  crush 
out  their  utmost  sweetness.  But  they  sped 
swiftly  on,  the  glory  of  the  day  began  to  fade, 
and  the  west  grew  vivid-hued,  and  at  last, 
warned  by  the  growing  twilight,  I  turned  and 

R 


258  «  PUNCHINELLO  " 

began  to  scull  homewards.  The  gloaming  dark- 
ened rapidly,  touching  the  river  to  mysterious 
loveliness  of  fading  light  and  quickening  shade  ; 
the  lap-lap  of  the  water  made  music  against  the 
sides  of  the  boat,  mixing  with  the  plaintive 
sighing  of  the  osiers  on  the  bafiks,  and  Nan's 
talk  began  to  come  less  trippingly,  and  she 
shivered  a  little,  as  if  chilled  by  the  ghostly 
beauty  round  her,  staring  silently  at  the  flowing 
water  starred  with  white  lily-cups,  stretching 
out  an  idle  hand  from  time  to  time  to  snatch  at 
a  floating  bud.  I  tried  to  revert  to  the  old 
pleasantries,  but  the  jests  sounded  stale,  and  for 
all  my  trying  the  words  stuck  in  my  throat,  and 
my  laughter  rang  discordant.  At  last,  with  a 
tired  sigh.  Nan  broke  the  long  silence,  during 
which  she  had  stared  down  at  the  river  as 
though  she  would  pierce  its  depths.  "  I  am 
weary,"  she  said,  her  head  bent  down,  "so 
weary."  Her  voice  was  full  of  tears.  "  The 
river  sings  a  lullaby.  I  could  sleep  to  its  croon 
for  ever,  and  never  know  another  fret."  She 
leaned  over,  and  her  tears  splashed  on  the  water, 
while  I  cried  out  to  her  impatiently  that  she  be 
careful — fearful  of  her  change  of  mood,  and 
anxious  to  stop  her  words,  believing  in  my  mad- 
ness that  I  was  already  familiar  with  her  coming 


"PUNCHINELLO"  259 

talk.  She  settled  herself  in  the  stern  and  looked 
at  me  with  brilliant  eyes,  burning  with  a  flame 
that  dried  her  tears,  and  her  mouth  narrowed 
into  a  hard  line.  It  was  another  Nan  confront- 
ing me  to  any  I  had  ever  known — a  desperate, 
driven  woman  with  trapped,  miserable  eyes  that 
steadfastly  sought  my  gaze. 

"  Anthony,"  she  began,  and  her  voice  died. 
"  Anthony,  for  weeks  past  I  have  been  trying  to 
tell  you " 

"  Do  not,"  I  prayed  her  sharply ;  "  we  have 
been  so  happy.     To-morrow " 

"  If  not  to-day,"  she  broke  out  passionately, 
"it  will  be  never — never — never,"  and  the 
"waters  caught  the  echo  of  her  prophecy  and 
sang  it  in  their  splash  ;  it  rustled  in  the  rushes 
the  wind  caught  it  and  sent  it  flying  over  the 
far  stretch  of  fast-glooming  upland,  "never — 
never."  She  bent  forwards  and  wrung  her 
hands.  "  Help  me,  Tony,"  she  cried,  "  question 
me — by  love  of  the  old  days,  help  me  to  set 
my  life  aright  again." 

I  stared  at  her,  powerless  to  check  her  tale. 
"  I  know — I  know,"  I  flung  out. 

"  You  do  not"  she  said  fiercely ;  "  you  are 
mad  with  your  jealousy,  Tony.     Granby " 

His  name  stung  me  to  madness,  and  I  stopped 


26o  "PUNCHINELLO" 

her  again  most  brutally.  We  drifted  down  the 
waters  in  silence  for  a  time,  and  when  she  next 
spoke  it  was  of  some  indifferent  matter,  and  for 
a  space  we  talked  of  trifles.  But  always  it 
seemed  to  me  as  if  she  lingered  on  the  brink  of 
a  confession,  and  always  I  repulsed  her,  affecting 
not  to  understarxi.  I  could  not  bear  to  hear  it 
from  her  own  mouth. 

Whether  she  would  have  told  me  the  entire 
truth,  thereby  changing  the  whole  tenor  of  our 
lives,  I  shall  never  know  ;  for  as  seizing  a  silence 
in  her  feverish  talk  she  bent  towards  me,  seek- 
ing vainly  for  words  while  her  colour  leapt  and 
paled,  I  heard  a  cry  near  me,  and  from  behind 
one  of  the  islands  with  which  the  Thames  is 
studded  a  wherry  shot  forth,  rowed  by  a  drunken 
man.  In  a  moment  he  was  on  us.  All  might  yet 
have  been  well  had  not  Nancy  flung  herself  into 
another  seat  to  escape  the  sudden  onslaught, 
but  she  rose  in  panic  and  in  a  moment  we  were 
all  three  struggling  in  the  water,  and  beneath  us 
the  weeds  lay  tangled  in  very  death-traps. 

Now  the  danger  swept  my  mind  clean  of  all 
other  thoughts  save  that  of  my  wife's  preserva- 
tion, and  when  I  rose  choking  from  the  water 
my  first  idea  was  her  safety.  A  few  yards  from 
me  the  fool  who  had  wrought  this  folly,  now 


"PUNCHINELLO"  261 

temporarily  sobered,  spluttered  oaths  ;  and  just 
past  him  was  Nan  struggling  and  clinging  to 
the  upturned  boat.  "  Tony  ! " — the  ghost  of  her 
voice  trembled  on  the  water,  and  she  strove  to 
come  to  me.  In  a  moment  I  was  beside  her, 
and  at  that  moment  my  punishment  began. 
"For  myself,  I — do— not — care — "  she  gasped, 
"  but  the  other — "  and  her  hands  plucked  at  the 
life  she  carried  beneath  her  heart.  "  For  myself 
— I — do — not — care — "  she  who  had  been  the 
very  incarnation  of  warm,  beautiful  life  turning 
indifferently  to  death  as  holding  at  least  peace. 
Now  the  remembrance  of  her  despairing  speech 
gives  another  turn  to  the  knife  ;  but  at  the  time 
I  spoke  impatiently  in  my  terror,  and  my  last 
words — God  forgive  me — were  sharp. 

I  shouted  for  help,  but  the  night  was  already 
on  us,  and  there  was  no  sign  of  any  living  soul 
along  the  banks  ;  and  when  I  strove  to  swim,  the 
weeds,  like  long  snakes,  twisted  round  my  legs, 
impeding  my  progress  and  snaring  me  the  more 
I  struggled,  while  Nan,  unconscious,  pressed 
heavily  upon  me.  Then  slowly,  sickeningly, 
the  drunken  brute  who  had  brought  us  to  this 
pass  began  to  drown.  He  had  struck  out  towards 
the  bank,  and  was  making  fair  way,  when  he 
became    entangled    in    the    water-weeds,    and 


262  "PUNCHINELLO" 

stopped,  powerless  to  free  his  legs.  It  was 
awful  to  see  him  die,  sucked  slowly  down  by 
the  quiet-flowing  river,  hardly  a  ripple  on  it  to 
break  its  gleaming  sheen.  Overhead  the  white 
moon  hung  like  a  benediction,  turning  the  great 
lily-cups  to  silver,  and  looking  down  remorse- 
lessly on  the  drowning  man  below.  As  he 
struggled  he  shrieked  hideous  blasphemies,  and 
from  them  lapsed  into  a  mad  prayer  ;  but  he 
only  sank  the  quicker  for  his  struggles,  as  if 
Nature,  intolerant  of  so  foul  a  blot  upon  her 
still  loveliness,  was  hurried  to  its  oblivion  by 
the  frantic  emphasis  of  his  piteous  plight.  He 
sank  as  if  into  a  quicksand  ;  and  a  few  seconds 
later  the  river  gleamed  unsullied,  with  not  a 
fretted  ripple  to  tell  the  tale.  For  all  his  end- 
ing I  knew  that  we  must  strive  to  reach  the 
shore ;  the  boat  showed  sign  of  sinking,  and  I 
noted  that  it  had  sprung  a  slight  leak  where  it 
had  teen  struck.  So,  upholding  Nan  as  best  I 
could,  I  made  another  effort,  this  time  with 
something  more  of  success,  and  attained  a  few 
lengths  towards  the  bank.  We  were  in  one  of 
the  widest  parts  of  the  river,  and  my  heart  sank 
as  I  realized  the  distance.  "  We  will  soon  be 
safe,"  I  lied  intermittently  to  Nan  ;  but  she  was 
unconscious,  barred  to  pain,  and  I  held  only  her 


"PUNCHINELLO"  263 

senseless  body.  I  was  but  weakly,  and  every 
stroke  seemed  as  if  it  must  be  my  last ;  but  I 
struggled  on,  and  gradually  the  distance  less- 
ened, and  with  possibility  of  safety  recurred 
something  of  the  tumult  into  which  Nan's 
words  had  cast  me,  and  by  some  accursed  trick 
of  fortune  I  wondered  for  whom  I  was  saving 
her.  I  thrust  the  thought  from  me  and  held 
her  the  tighter,  but  it  would  not  be  gainsaid, 
and  at  every  stroke  that  brought  us  nearer  land 
I  heard  the  question  louder.  We  were  not  four 
lengths  from  the  shore,  when  out  of  the  murky 
darkness  stepped  Cosmo,  standing  and  stretch- 
ing out  triumphant  hands  — "  an  hallucina- 
tion," they  whisper,  finger  on  lip,  "  mad."  Ah, 
mad  indeed !  for  as  I  looked  I  was  knotted 
afresh  by  the  water-weed,  and  Nan  loosened 
from  my  arms,  and  this  time  I  let  her  go — I 
let  her  go.     .     .     . 

Only  a  moment's  madness,  and  then  I  was 
fighting  wildly  for  freedom  from  the  hellish 
liens  that  bound  me,  fighting  vainly,  while  be- 
fore me,  just  out  of  my  reach,  Nancy  was 
sucked  down  to  her  death  within  a  stone's- 
throw  of  safety.  The  gleaming  waters  closed 
over  her  head.  My  darling,  it  was  an  accident 
— an  accident  born  of  a  passing  madness — yet 


264  "PUNCHINELLO" 

in  the  glory  of  the  skies  another  word  sometimes 
lies  blazoned.  I  hear  it  in  the  roar  of  a  crowd  ; 
it  is  whispered  in  the  silence  of  solitude  ;  the 
winds  fling  it  wide  ;  in  the  breaking  of  the  waves 
it  is  screamed  to  the  shore.  I  cannot  evade  it ; 
all  the  world  knows  what  the  river  and  I  did 
between  us,  though  to  me  men  speak  honeyed 
words,  pretending  that  the  waters  did  their  foul 
work  unaided.  "  It  had  taxed  a  strong  man's 
strength,"  they  say,  seeking  to  comfort  me  with 
empty  words — "  you  are  but  weakly,"  and  the 
old  hated  look  of  pity  steals  over  their  faces  ; 
and  I,  for  the  moment,  I  love  it,  and  wring 
gladness  from  the  knowledge  of  the  infirmity 
that  has  blasted  my  life.  I  did  my  best ;  what 
am  I  to  save  a  life  ?  No  fault  of  mine,  I  cry  to 
my  dead  ;  all  man  could  do  I  did.  There  are 
none  to  give  me  the  lie,  and  yet — I  know  my- 
self for  what  I  am — I  know  what  I  did  when  I 
pushed  her  away  in  that  one  mad  moment  when 
my  brain  was  all  a-fire  and  Granby  stretched 
out  willing  hands  to  take  my  burden  from  me. 
When  the  shades  thicken,  and  the  river-mists 
rise,  the  gray  ghosts  of  the  river  sob  the  truth  ; 
I  hear  it  in  strange  lands  proclaimed  by  alien 
tongues  ;  it  comes  to  me  in  the  jocund  tumult  of 
the  spring,  when  the  world  lies  pranked  out  in 


*^  PUNCHINELLO"  265 

its  fairest;  I.  hear  it  in  the  falling  flutter  of  the 
autumn  leaves.  The  little  children  stare  at  me 
affrighted,  and  their  elders  pass  me  by  uneasily. 
They  know — they  all  know,  though  they  will 
not  speak  of  it,  preferring  their  weary  comedy ; 
but  the  truth  clamours  ever  in  my  ears,  for  who, 
though  he  cheat  the  whole  world,  shall  salve  his 
heart  with  belief  in  his  own  lies  ?  Christ  pity 
me  !  Once  I  wished  her  dead,  and  within  the 
year  she  lay  with  the  heavy  mould  upon  her 
face,  and  her  jangled  requiem  is  for  ever  sound- 
ing. "  Such  lovcy  when  lost^  is  lost  to  all 
eternity^ 

*  *  in  in  * 

As  I  write,  the  ashes  of  the  dead  past  quicken 
and  glow,  stinging  my  memory  to  over- keen 
remembrance,  and  by  such  pain  impeding  the 
telling  of  my  tale.  Fifty  years  have  passed  — 
fifty  years  of  toil  and  suffering,  holding  many 
failures,  yet  rich  in  success  and  in  the  com- 
mendation of  men  ;  but  of  these  things  it  is  but 
the  wraiths  that  haunt  me  in  a  phantasmagoria 
of  misty  shadows  that  ghost-like  flit  through 
my  brain,  leaving  my  pulses  unstirred.  But 
there  are  scenes  branded  into  my  very  soul  that 
live  quick  and  fresh  as  though  but  a  sun  had 
set  since  their  happening. 


266  "PUNCHINELLO'^ 

It  is  night,  and  I  stand  beside  a  grave  newly 
carved  in  the  earth  ;  a  curious  crowd  is  surging 
in  the  churchyard,  the  yellow  flicker  of  torches 
makes  fantastic  shapes  of  the  heavy  tombstones 
and  uneven  mounds  that  lie  in  their  irregularity 
as  though  the  dead  slept  but  fitfully  beneath  ;  a 
great  bat  flaps  heavily  through  the  air,  and  from 
out  the  gloom  of  the  woods  the  discordant  note 
of  a  corn-crake  jars  the  silence  and  fuses  with 
the  sobs  of  women ;  now  and  again  whis- 
pered words  of  sympathy  reach  me,  and  I  beat 
down  the  laugh  in  my  throat.  Did  they  but 
know  !  but  they  did  not  know.  Only  once  in 
the  lurid  glare  of  a  torch  Ooterwint's  eyes  met 
mine,  and  I  read  knowledge  of  the  truth  in  his 
stern  gaze. 

^^ In  the  midst  of  life  we  are  in  death:  of 
whom  may  we  seek  for  succour  but  of  Thee  ?  " 

A  wind  woke  suddenly,  and  the  long  grasses 
stirred  and  shivered  on  the  graves  as  though 
voicing  the  plea  of  those  that  lay  prisoned 
beneath — whispering — whispering  to  the  in- 
different skies  and  the  silent  stars.  "But  of 
Thee,  0  Lord — but  of  Thee"  and  the  priest 
droned  on,  "  Deliver  us  not  into  the  bitter  pains 
of  eternal  death." 

Perhaps,  after  all,  madness  was  working  in 


"PUNCHINELLO"  267 

my  brain,  for  it  seemed  to  me  that  Nan's  voice 
cried  aloud :  "  Deliver  me  not  —  deliver  me 
not  " — her  voice  was  sharp  with  terror.  I  could 
not  think  that  she  was  dead,  and  stretched  out 
staying  hands  when  they  lowered  the  coffin, 
praying  them  desist  from  this  monstrous  wrong. 

I  remember  that  I  was  forcibly  held  back, 
and  that  a  woman  cried  out  pitifully ;  but  I 
broke  away  from  their  grasp,  and  would  have 
hurled  myself  into  the  grave  had  not  Ooterwint 
held  me  in  a  grip  of  iron. 

God  !  when  the  first  earth  rattled  on  her,  was 
it  I  who  shrieked,  understanding  finally  what  I 
had  done  ?  What  did  the  voice  say  ?  "  Blessed 
are  they  that  die  in  the  Lord!"  I  could  not 
follow  it.  My  mind  was  blurred  to  all  under- 
standing but  of  the  black  chasm  at  my  feet, 
and  of  my  love  that  lay  within. 

It  was  over  at  last,  and  they  would  have 
forced  me  to  return  with  them,  but  I  would  not 
leave  her  lying  there  alone,  and  at  last  even 
Ooterwint  tired,  and  left  me  alone  with  my 
dead.  For  long  hours  I  prayed  her  send  me 
some  token  of  her  presence,  but  the  night 
slipped  on,  and  never  a  sign  came  for  all  my 
crying,  and  at  last,  overcome  with  weariness,  I 
slept 


268  *^  PUNCHINELLO'* 

When  I  awoke  the  stars  had  died,  and  the 
east  was  glinting  with  the  glory  of  the  coming 
day.  As  I  stared  stupidly,  numbed  with  sleep, 
a  great  shaft  of  light  leapt  from  it,  a  bird  began 
to  sing,  and  the  world  waked  ;  but  she — she  did 
not  wake. 

The  first  days  after  the  funeral  lay  heavily 
blurred  in  my  memory.  I  remember  only  that 
Ooterwint  rarely  left  me,  and  was  for  ever  pray- 
ing me  return  to  my  home,  and  that  I  could  not 
tear  myself  away  from  the  place  where  she  lay. 

It  seemed  to  me,  as  I  waited  by  the  roughly- 
tossed  earth  that  marked  the  new-made  grave, 
that  she  must  know  of  my  presence,  and  in  my 
madness  I  would  cry  to  her  deaf  ears,  be- 
seeching her  forgiveness,  praying  her  have  no 
fear  in  her  loneliness — she  lying  there  deso- 
late with  her  unborn  child,  shut  away  from  all 
the  brightness  that  she  had  so  loved. 

At  last,  almost  by  force,  Ooterwint  took  me 
home,  and  as  we  neared  the  end  of  our  long 
journeying,  the  Nan  I  had  left  behind  faded  to 
the  unsubstantial  fancy  of  a  wrecked  brain,  and 
almost  I  believed  that  she  awaited  me  at  home. 
It  could  not  be  that  she  was  dead,  and  that  the 
world   bustled   with   its '  old   cheerfulness ;    the 


**  PUNCHINELLO'*  269 

jovial  tones  of  the  driver  and  the  clang  of  the 
horses'  hoofs  rang  familiarly  in  my  ears.  Just 
so  had  it  been  when  she  sat  by  my  side  some 
two  weeks  past.  It  could  not  be  that  she  was 
dead. 

Ah  me,  the  heart-break  of  that  home-coming ! 
I  faced  it  alone,  praying  Ooterwint  leave  me  to 
myself,  which  he  did,  unwillingly,  begging  me  to 
suffer  his  presence,  but  I  would  none  of  him. 


XIX 

NOON  of  the  next  day  I  went  to  her 
private  room  where  she  had  been  used 
to  write  and  work.  I  was  drawn  by  a  fasci- 
nation that  I  was  unable  to  resist  to  move 
among  things  personal  to  her,  to  stand  where 
she  had  lately  stood,  to  finger  what  her  hands 
had  lately  touched. 

When  I  opened  the  door  I  fell  back,  for  all 
her  occupations  lay  as  she  had  left  them  in 
her  hurry — a  book  half-opened  tossed  upon  a 
table,  a  white  tangle  of  work  with  a  needle 
thrust  in  it  and  a  thimble  beside  it — I  knew 
what  she  had  been  stitching,  and  turned  faint 
where  I  stood.  Despite  myself,  my  hands 
went  out  to  it  for  love  of  her  late  contact, 
and  as  I  moved  it  a  bunch  of  keys  went  rat- 
tling to  the  ground.  I  picked  them  up  me- 
chanically, and  as  I  did  so  noted  that  among 
the  heavier  keys  hung  the  tiny  gilded  one  of 
her  escrit^  ire. 

It  flashed  across  my  mind,  as  I  laid  them 

270 


"PUNCHINELLO"  271 

aside,  that  sooner  or  later  I  must  arrange  these 
things  and  look  to  her  papers  ;  but  in  this  hour 
my  will  failed  me  ;  it  seemed  as  though  the 
last  link  was  snapped  between  us  when  her 
late  environment,  so  eloquent  of  her  past  pre- 
sence, was  marshalled  to  order. 

Perhaps  she  swayed  me  f  om  beyond  the 
grave,  for  when  I  would  have  gone  from  the 
room,  unable  longer  to  endure  it,  I  staggered, 
blind  with  the  rain  in  my  eyes,  against  the 
table,  and  again  the  keys  fell  at  my  feet. 

This  time,  driven  by  a  sudden  impulse,  I 
turned  and  fitted  them  in  the  lock  of  her 
desk.  What  did  it  matter  what  I  found?  It 
was  too  late  for  repentance— for  either  of  us. 
Now,  O  God  have  mercy ! — I  repent  me. 

There  were  no  letters  from  her  lover,  only  a 
few  papers  and  notes  from  my  mother  and  Cecily, 
and  a  tiny  volume  rose-bound  with  "  Nan " 
broidered  on  the  cover  in  seed  pearls.  It  was 
her  diary,  telling  sketchily  of  her  life  abroad 
with  mine  uncle,  but  written  with  more  fulness 
of  detail  from  the  hour  at  which  she  came  to 
us.  There  was  a  page  or  so  devoted  to  my 
mother  and  Cecily,  with  an  incidental  mention 
of  my  name.  She  wrote  of  me  with  a  certain 
petulant  interest : — 


272  **  PUNCHINELLO" 

"  Anthony  glowers  at  me  as  if  I  were  some 
strange  beast.  They  tell  me  he  is  monstrous 
clever,  and  most  terribly  sensitive  on  the  sub- 
ject of  his  crooked  back.  It  is  a  cruel  affliction, 
but  little  noticeable  when  he  is  speaking  of 
what  interests  him — his  great  eyes  lighten,  his 
face  glows  and  you  forget  all.     .     .     ." 

She  wrote  no  more  till  she  came  to  the 
episode  of  her  dancing,  and  the  arrival  of  the 
Lady  Agatha,  which  she  related  with  much 
spirit — Christ !  her  jests  tore  my  heart. 

"  To-day  I  danced  to  Tony's  playing.  What 
sound !  what  music !  My  feet  patter  the 
ground  as  I  write,  in  sheer  remembrance,  and 
all  from  handling  a  piece  of  wood  and  cat- 
gut. He  was  monstrous  tempersome  when 
I  called  it  by  this  name,  and  would  not 
admit  the  beauty  of  my  dancing.  It  is  the 
one  thing  in  which  I  succeed,  and  I  love  to 
hear  it  praised  ;  but  when  I  said,  *  Is  it  well  ? ' 
he  answered  with  nothing  but  a  tepid  *  Fairly,' 
and  in  hot  discussion  of  the  question  we  verged 
on  quarrelling.  We  stayed  on  the  brink,  how- 
ever, for,  with  a  fretted  sigh,  some  grumble 
regarding  feminine  unreasonableness,  he  let  me 
have  my  way.  *  Who  shall  contend  with  a 
woman's  tongue?'  I  heard  him  grunt  beneath 


"PUNCHINELLO"  273 

his  breath,  but  I  affected  not  to  hear.  Though 
I  cannot  keep  from  teasing  him,  there  are  times 
when  he  brings  a  smart  to  my  eyes.  He  told 
me  to-day  of  how  a  child  had  mocked  him. 
*  Punchinello !'  it  had  said,  scoffing  at  his  de- 
formity. He  told  me  the  tale  in  the  baldest 
mode,  in  bitter,  sneering  tones,  yet  for  all  his 
posing  I  heard  the  heart — break  through  the 
mock,  and  I — I — almost  I  am  ashamed  to  write 
it — I  kissed  him.  He  looked  so  pitiful,  and  the 
indifference  covered  his  pain  with  so  thin  a 
veneer. 

"  Methinks  he  liked  it,  for  he  tried  to  soften 
me  to  another  kiss,  telling  me  the  story  afresh 
with  detail  and  a  melancholy  air ;  but  I  saw 
through  his  ruse — poor  ingenuous  Tony — and 
would  not.  He  is  such  a  baby  for  all  his 
genius  and  tantrums.  I  cannot  choose  but 
tease  him.  'The  lads  in  the  village  call  'it 
after  me,*  he  said,  and  sighed  till  the  leaves 
overhead  fluttered.  Now  the  mother  told  me 
that  five  years  ago  a  drunken  man  had  done 
this  thing,  and  that  the  other  lads  had  set  upon 
him  and  ducked  him  freely  in  the  horsepond  ; 
but  Tony  looked  at  me  unashamed,  with  head 
a  trifle  askew. 

"  *  Punchinello  they  call  me,'    he  moaned — 

S 


274  "PUNCHINELLO" 

and  waited.  But  I  minded  how  ofttimes  he 
had  jeered  at  women  and  their  free  lips,  and 
sprang  away  from  him,  praying  him  play  his 
brave  dance  again.  Then  it  was,  '  Call  me 
— Punchinello,  and  the  smart  will  be  gone 
from  the  word.'  Never  was  there  such  a  lad 
of  whims  and  cranks,  but  pretty  speeches  are 
indeed  a  fresh  departure.  He  was  so  keen 
set  on  it  that  I  bargained  with  him — if  he 
would  fiddle  afresh  I  would  twist  my  mouth 
to  the  hideous  word.  To  which  he  assented. 
Oh,  what  a  dance  !  I  could  trip  the  whole  day 
to  its  measure." 

Her  lust  of  life  and  movement  glittered 
through  the  lines.  Her  rash  phrase  rang  in  my 
ears.  "  Come  weal  or  woe,  how  good  it  is  to 
be  alive''' — and  still  I  read  : — 

"While  we  were  without  on  the  lawns  the 
Lady  Agatha  arrived  in  her  chaise,  a  wondrous 
dame  with  daubed  cheeks  but  a  most  exquisite 
gown.  It  must  be  passing  sweet  to  so  rustle 
with  every  step,  and  to  wear  nodding  plumes 
that  wave  with  every  motion  of  the  head. 
Were  I  so  gowned  and  feathered,  I  would  be 
for  ever  whirling  and  bowing.  Tony  loved 
her  not ;  in  part,  I  fancy,  because  she  goaded 
me  to  tears  regarding  my  dear  Harry,  but  more, 


"PUNCHINELLO"  275 

I  trow,  because  she  be  a  woman.  To  list  to 
him  one  would  think  we  were  the  devil's  lures, 
leading  only  to  grief  and  sin.  I  fled  from  my 
godmother,  crying  like  a  babe,  and  shortly  Tony 
followed  me  to  bid  me  go  back ;  but  we  re- 
turned not,  and  spent  a  pleasant  hour  in  chat- 
ting. Anthony  looked  at  me  not  unkindly — 
methinks  his  hatred  of  women  is  somewhat 
superficial.  I  think — I  do  not  know — I  think 
I  might  train  him  to  toleration  of  our  sex.  It 
seems  a  sad  waste  of  his  affections  to  spend 
it  all  on  music,  however  beautiful.  I  should 
like  a  fragment,  and  most  certainly  he  looked 
not  unkindly  at  me  ! " 

Swiftly  I  turned  the  page  with  shaking 
hand  : — 

"  Anthony  has  returned  to  Town — I  miss  him 
terribly.  Oft  I  wonder  if  he  misses  me.  I 
doubt  it,  living  in  a  cloud  of  dreams  as  he 
does.     I  wish " 

She  prattled  of  my  return  for  a  few  days  : 
"  Anthony  comes  to  us  for  a  brief  stay — me- 
thinks he  is  anxious  regarding  the  mother,  who 
fails  somewhat.  I  will  wear  my  white  taffeta, 
and  he  will  stare  at  me  with  solemn  eyes,  and 
just  when  the  pretty  compliment  should  be 
ripe  he  will  turn  his  back  and  break  out  about 


276  "PUNCHINELLO" 

the  different  schools  of  art.  Tony  is  not 
gallant.  How  I  hate  that  music !  If  it  were 
not  for  that,  he  would  notice  me  more  seri- 
ously." 

Then  again  a  lapse,  after  which  the  pages 
were  filled  with  the  history  of  her  brief  stay 
in  Town,  and  her  regret  that  she  never  met 
me  in  her  gay  circle  ;  then  later  a  thanksgiving 
that  I  had  been  rescued  from  the  conflagration 
of  St.  Mary's. 

"  Had  he  died,  I  could  not  have  borne  it," 
she  wrote.  "  He  regards  me  little ;  I — I  love 
him." 

Truly,  sweetheart,  your  vengeance  was  great ! 
On — on  it  went — the  laying  bare  of  a  white  soul. 

"To-day  the  Viscount  Lothair  made  me  a 
handsome  offer  of  his  hand  and  heart.  I  de- 
clined both  ;  not,  I  trust,  discourteously,  but  I 
could  scarce  keep  my  countenance.  Lady 
Agatha  is  furious.  I  go  home  to-morrow, 
and  I  shall  see  Anthony.  They  speak  of 
him  as  of  great  promise,  and  I  listen  proudly. 
Only  one  more  day  and  night,  and  I  shall 
see  him  with  mine  own  eyes.  Though  he  re- 
gard me  not,  caring  for  nought  but  crotchets 
and  quavers,  he  cannot  help  my  loving  him. 
Perhaps — perhaps    ,    ,    ." 


"PUNCHINELLO"  277 

Again  a  long  hiatus — then  some  few  scrawled 
words  telling  of  her  great  happiness  when  I 
prayed  her  be  my  wife. 

"  Surely  I  am  fearful  by  reason  of  the  great- 
ness of  my  joy  !  Anthony  —  my  dear,  dear 
love    .     .     ." 

The  fragmentary  lines  were  almost  illegible, 
scribbled  carelessly,  and  often  ceasing  before 
the  sentence  was  closed,  as  though  the  writer 
had  known  how  vain  a  thing  it  was  to  attempt 
to  express  her  joys  in  words.  As  I  read  I 
could  see  her  writing,  in  gay  impatience  using 
a  tedious  page  for  lack  of  happier  confidant. 
I  saw  her,  too,  with  white  face  and  dripping 
hair  ;  yet  I  read,  forcing  myself  further. 

Of  the  first  perfect  months  of  our  married 
life  there  was  little  written.  Just  a  word 
telling  she  doubted  such  happiness  could  be. 
Then  she  wrote  of  Granby's  advent,  and  how 
she  desired  to  thank  him  in  person,  and  I — 
although  I  felt  the  dead  beside  me — laughed 
with  a  strange  mirth. 

"  To-day  the  hero  who  saved  my  Tony  comes 
to  us.  I  am  keen  to  thank  him  for  delivering 
my  dear  love  from  danger.  Had  he  died — 
I  cannot  think  of  it    .    .    ." 

I  turned  the  page. 


278  •*  PUNCHINELLO" 

"Cosmo  Granby  is  no  other  than  Jasper 
Ruthven.  Why  did  he  travel  under  an  alias  ? 
What  matter — to  each  his  own  affair !  I  would 
he  looked  not  so  boldly  at  me — my  dear  love 
is  all  a-fire.  Yet  when  I  would  check  Master 
Granby,  I  cannot.  I  remember  he  saved  my 
darling's  life,  and  perforce  bear  his  broad  com- 
pliments." 

Here  she  drifted  away  to  talk  of  other  things, 
to  anxious  noting  of  my  mother's  failing  health 
and  fear  that  the  snap  of  winter  prove  too 
strong  for  her,  with  now  and  again  an  irritated 
note  of  impatience  at  Granby,  and  a  fond 
toleration  of  my  mad  jealousy.  Further,  she 
wrote  : — 

"  My  poor  Anthony,  it  is  a  cruelty  so  to 
tease  him,  but  I  cannot  for  the  life  of  me 
forbear.  Master  Granby  has  but  to  glance  at 
me,  and  his  great  eyes  glow  and  his  lips  tighten 
to  a  thin  line.  It  is  a  wholesome  discipline 
for  him  nathless — I  remember  this  and  check 
my  desire  to  tell  him  that  his  little  finger  is 
more  to  me  than  ten  thousand  handsome  block- 
heads of  Granbys.  My  clever  Anthony!  It 
is  the  greatest  pity  that  he  has  this  crank  in 
his  brain  touching  the  visitation  with  which 
God   has   afflicted    him — it    touches    madness. 


"PUNCHINELLO"  279 

The  mother  told  me  to-day  that  it  was  Granby 
who  mocked  him  as  Punchinello  when  a  child 
— a  brutal  act,  but  surely  atoned  for  by  his 
heroic  saving  of  his  life  at  St.  Mary's.  Tony 
is  terribly  unforgiving.  No  doubt  the  wound 
still  gapes." 

Here  several  days  passed  unmarked  by 
entries,  and  when  again  she  wrote  it  was  in 
a  graver  vein. 

"  Anthony's  moods  try  me  terribly.  It  is  in- 
deed most  curious  that  one  so  gifted  should, 
in  these  matters,  act  as  a  very  child.  Still,  as 
the  dear  God  has  so  made  him — perhaps,  after 
all,  he  cannot  act  otherwise.  If  it  were  not 
so  irritating,  it  would  be  intensely  humorous. 
He  has  hardly  eyes  or  ears  even  for  his 
mother,  whom  he  adores,  but  sits  and  glares 
at  Master  Granby  and  myself  with  murder  in 
his  face — my  dear  ridiculous  love  !  I  cannot 
but  feel  it  would  be  well  to  let  him  glare 
unnoted,  but  I  cannot  bear  to  see  him  look 
unhappy.  A  few  days  past  I  happened  to 
glance  suddenly  up  and  found  his  eyes  fixed 
on  me,  and  in  them  I  saw  a  monstrous  anguish, 
and  as  I  looked  he  rose  and  went  out  of  the 
room  with  bent  head.  There  is  a  glass  let 
into  the  further  wall   of  the   parlour,   and   as 


28o  "PUNCHINELLO" 

he  passed  he  raised  his  head  as  if  involuntarily, 
and  I  saw  him  wince  and  cower  before  his 
own  reflection — mine  own  dear  silly  Tony.  He 
must  be  humoured.  Adieu  to  Master  Granby's 
pretty  speeches.  I  will  be  cautious,  and  treat 
him  with  growing  coldness,  and  he  will  no 
doubt  accept  the  hint. 

"  Tony  has  not  glowered  so  furiously  for  the 
last  day  or  so,  as  I  have  striven  to  foist  Master 
Granby  on  to  Cecily,  but  the  position  is  still 
rich  in  discomfort.  Now  Cosmo  is  irritated, 
and  not  tardy  in  showing  it,  and  Reuben  too 
looks  not  over-charmed.  Still  I  care  not. 
Anthony  looks  happier  and  is  in  a  more  gra- 
cious mood,  and  every  day  nears  us  to  Cosmo's 
departure." 

Now  there  came  a  blank  space ;  and  when 
again  she  wrote,  the  pages  were  blistered  with 
the  dropping  of  hot  tears. 

"The  mother  is  dead.  I  can  hardly  realize 
it,  and  miss  her  every  hour.  God  never  made 
a  better  woman.  It  was  terrible  to  see  her 
die,  yet  we  could  not  wish  the  struggle  pro- 
longed, so  acute  was  her  agony,  and  somehow 
it  seemed  to  me  not  all  physical,  but  as  if  some 
trouble  lay  on  her  mind,  and  she  would  have 
spoke  it  before  she  died.      It  was  piteous  to 


*»  PUNCHINELLO"  281 

see  her  fighting  her  weakness,  and  staring  at 
Tony  with  eyes  all  alive  with  meaning,  yet 
unable  to  articulate.  Some  word  she  spoke, 
and  he  answered  in  rapid  response,  as  though 
he  had  known  what  she  would  say ;  but  he 
had  signed  to  Cecily  and  me  to  stand  apart, 
so  I  know  not  what  she  whispered.  I  would 
she  had  not  died  with  that  terrible  look  of 
unrest  on  her  face — even  death  failed  to  iron 
out  the  marks. 

"  Granby  has  left  us,  thank  God,  and  gone 
to  his  home :  it  is  too  near,  stfll  yet  it  is 
something  to  have  him  away.  He  spoke  when 
he  left  us  of  soon  coaching  to  Town — I  pray 
he  may  do  it.  Temporarily  my  mind  was 
wiped  clear,  by  the  sad  fortune  that  has  be- 
fallen us,  of  the  miserable  hour  that  heralded 
it.  My  heart  flutters  when  I  think  of  it.  I 
had  not  thought,  for  all  Anthony's  airs,  that 
the  mischief  rankled  so  deep.  The  day  she 
died  Granby  had  gone  out  walking,  and  in  his 
absence  Anthony  took  it  upon  himself  to  speak 
to  me  regarding  his  attitude  towards  me.  I 
am  not  over-placid  as  to  temper,  and  Anthony 
is  a  very  firebrand,  so  in  five  minutes  we 
had  the  makings  of  a  very  pretty  quarrel.  He 
indeed  irritated  me  so  by  his  way  of  speaking 


282  "PUNCHINELLO" 

— I  might  have  been  a  damsel  of  ten  years — 
that  I  wept  with  rage,  after  which  all  was 
well.  I  will  remember  it  in  future,  'Women's 
weapons  water-drops,'  and  most  excellent 
weapons  too.  I  was  just  preparing  to  forgive 
him — it  seemed  wiser  not  to  rush  at  this 
desirable  end  too  soon  ;  my  Tony  must  learn 
something  of  manners — when  the  door  opened, 
and  Granby  strode  in  with  a  bunch  of  violets 
in  his  hand.  Now  for  all  my  good  resolutions 
I  could  not  keep  from  teasing  my  love  a  trifle, 
and  I  smiled  with  a  touch  of  extra  sweetness 
at  Cosmo  as  he  moved  towards  me.  He  is 
never  tardy  in  his  advances,  and  he  marched 
up  to  me  and  slipped  the  flowers  in  my  girdle. 
At  this  moment  I  glanced  at  Tony  to  mark 
how  he  took  the  lesson.  Ouf — never  again ! 
He  may  behave  as  he  will  for  tl^ie  future,  I 
instruct  him  no  more.  He  looked  a  very  devil, 
his  face  twitching  and  his  body  bent  forward 
as  though  for  a  spring.  I  do  not  know  what 
would  have  happened  had  not  at  this  moment 
a  cry  sounded  from  above  which  sent  me 
flying  up  the  stairs,  followed  on  my  heels  by 
him,  to  find  the  mother  in  extremity.  I 
would  he  had  not  this  mania.  When  we  were 
first  betrothed,  the  mother  gave  me  a  word  of 


"PUNCHINELLO"  283 

warning  regarding  it,  saying  that  it  was  due 
in  great  part  to  his  affliction,  which  makes 
him  feel  that  other  men  must  assuredly  pass 
him  on  the  road  to  the  goal  of  any  woman's 
love.     I  was  a  brute  to  tease  him.     Nevermore  ! " 

Avid  to  learn,  I  yet  could  hardly  turn  the 
leaves  for  terror  of  the  coming  knowledge.  It 
was  as  though  her  lips,  sealed  in  life,  now 
spoke  from  the  grave.  Had  I  wronged  her, 
after  all  ?  Yet  I  had  seen  her  in  his  arms, 
his  kisses  on  her  face  :  were  there  words  in  all 
the  world  that  could  spell  in  that  picture  a 
different  story  to  the  one  I  had  read?  Of  a 
spell  of  time  there  was  no  word  ;  and  when 
again  she  wrote,  the  shadow  of  her  trouble  was 
looming  large. 

"  I  am  sorely  troubled  ;  I  know  not  where  to 
turn.  To-day,  when  walking  at  some  distance 
from  home,  I  was  waylaid  by  Granby.  He 
flung  himself  from  his  horse  and  kissed  me 
where  I  stood  ;  his  mouth  burns  me  now.  In 
my  passion  I  struck  him  sharply  on  the  cheek. 
*  1  am  no  light  o'  love,'  I  said,  scarce  able  to 
speak  for  fury  and  fear.  Had  Tony  chanced 
to  pass — I  dare  not  think  of  it.  His  face  grew 
very  evil.  *  No,'  he  sneered ;  *  stranger  things 
have  been.     The  wise  doctors  have  it  that  his 


284  "PUNCHINELLO" 

ancestors  live  in  each  man — and  woman.  Boast 
not  too  soon,  Mistress  Nancy  ! '  and  then  in 
his  anger  he  burst  out  with  a  filthy  tale — lies — 
lies — lies.  Yet  I  grow  hot  when  I  write  it. 
He  said  that  my  mother  was  a  woman  of  the 
streets,  picked  up  by  Harry  for  love  of  her 
perfect  face.  *  He  had  always  a  nice  taste  in 
women,'  he  grinned,  'but  she  was  fairer  than 
the  last, — indeed,  beat  the  record, — and  there 
were  some  winsome  women  among  them,  un- 
less rumour  lies  with  more  than  a  thousand 
tongues.' 

"'You  lie,*  I  said,  forcing  the  words  with 
difficulty,  for  my  brain  seemed  numbed  as  if 
from  a  great  blow ;  '  Harry  had  never  wedded 
such  a  woman.' 

"  Here  he  burst  into  a  roar  of  laughter. 
*  Harry  Dallas  wedded  !  Dallas  a  Benedict ! 
Though  he  loved  you  above  all  things,  he 
would  never  let  you  call  him  father — too 
domestic !  If  he  heard  that,  he  would  laugh 
for  all  the  fires  of  hell.'  He  spoke  in  the  heat 
of  his  wrath,  and  as  it  cooled,  he  looked  some- 
what ashamed.  'There,  think  no  more  of  it,' 
he  said  ;  '  why  should  we  not  be  friends  ?  '  and 
essayed  to  touch  my  hand,  but  I  shuddered 
away  from  him  and  would  not. 


"PUNCHINELLO"  285 

"  *  You  lie — you  lie  !  *  I  cried  again.  Long 
had  I  struggled  to  say  it,  but  the  words  seemed 
frozen  on  my  lips.  And  having  voiced  it  I 
was  afraid  and  left  him,  while  he,  having  some 
grain  of  compassion,  forbore  to  follow." 
•X-  *  *  ^e  * 

The  book  slipped  from  my  hand,  and  I 
looked  through  the  windows  at  the  brilliant 
world  without.  A  great  creeper  that  covered 
the  house,  tossed  by  a  passing  breeze,  flung  a 
branch  across  the  lattice ;  the  leaves  painted 
with  their  dying  scarlet  flush  hung  as  in  brilliant 
defiance  of  the  death  that  menaced  them. 
Silently  they  echoed  Morturi  te  Salutant ; 
the  conceit  pleased  me.  They  had  reddened 
early  this  year,  I  reflected,  for  it  was  but  the 
end  of  August.  External  things  laid  hold  on 
me.  Other  trifles  I  noted — a  worn  patch  on 
the  tapestry,  a  picture  hanging  terribly  askew. 
I  rose  and  set  it  right. 

It  hung  in  line  at  last,  and  then  I  turned 
and  saw  her  words  lying  on  the  floor  ;  but  I  did 
not  move,  for  from  where  I  stood  the  lines 
were  but  as  a  faint  blur,  and  I  dared  not 
advance  lest  I  should  read  further. 

The  lattice  was  not  closed  ;  the  air  stirred 
the  pages  till  it  seemed  as  though  they  were 


286  <*  PUNCHINELLO" 

informed  with  life  and  beckoned  to  me  in  mute 
appeal.     I  read  again  : 

"  Fool  that  I  was  to  hearken  to  such  slander 
of  the  dead.  Here,  safe  at  home,  I  sit  and 
laugh  at  the  base  malice  that  stimulated  his 
sluggish  imagination  to  such  mean  revenge. 
I  would  tell  Tony  if  it  were  not  for  his  temper. 
I  would  do  better  to  coax  him  to  be  civil  to 
Master  Granby,  not  that  I  care  what  he  may 
say;  yet  at  times — how  shall  I  put  it?  I 
am  indifferent  and  anxious  all  in  a  breath. 
If  he  were  to  speak  to  Anthony — and  he  is 
malicious  enough  for  aught — Jesus  mercy  ! 

"  I  received  a  letter  from  Granby  to-day, 
praying  my  pardon,  and  begging  me  receive 
him  when  he  comes  in  person  to  offer  his 
apologies.  Never  will  I  receive  him,  the  base 
hound  !  How  dare  he  ask  me  ?  I  will  speak 
to  Anthony.  No,  I  dare  not.  Indeed,  had 
I  the  courage,  I  lack  the  heart.  He  is  work- 
ing very  hard  at  an  oratorio,  and  if  it  were  not 
for  the  shadow  of  our  late  loss  he  would  be  as 
happy  as  these  spring  days  are  gay.  Nature 
is  in  her  best  mood  ;  the  world  is  freshly  painted 
to  meet  the  wear  and  tear  of  the  new  year  ;  the 
skies  are  as  great  seas  of  blue,  all  flecked  with 
white,  like  the  fretted  edges  of  breaking  waves, 


«  PUNCHINELLO  "  287 

and  everywhere  the  sap  seems  stirring.  We 
enjoy  to  the  uttermost  these  fair  days — my 
Tony  and  L  I  would  I  could  wipe  from  my 
mind  the  memory  of  Cosmo  Granby's  brutal 
insult.  It  was  but  idle  fire  and  fury,  yet  it 
haunts  me. 

"  He  has  again  sent  me  a  letter  by  his  ser- 
vant. Again  he  threatens  to  come  in  person 
if  I  will  not  meet  him  without  In  his  epistle 
he  tells  me  that  he  has  given  the  strictest 
injunctions  that  it  be  given  straight  into  mine 
own  hands ;  and  a  foolish  maid,  of  new  service, 
failing  to  hap  on  me  instantly,  left  it  lying  in 
the  vestibule,  where  Tony  chanced  on  it  and 
brought  it  to  me.  At  the  time  I  could  barely 
speak,  my  tongue  clave  to  the  roof  of  my 
mouth  ;  but  by  the  time  we  met  at  our  mid- 
day meal  I  had  mastered  myself,  and  brought 
it  out  from  my  pocket  and  read  him  a  page 
or  two  in  which  Granby  prattled  of  common 
gossip.  Excellently  well  I  acted,  talking  and 
laughing.  My  strength  is  more  than  I  thought. 
He  suspects  nothing ;  but  ah,  how  he  hates 
him  !  If  I  were  not  so  troubled,  I  could  smile 
at  the  remembrance  of  the  crockery  smashing 
on  the  floor  when  I  minded  him  that  Granby 
had  saved  his  life.     At  the  time  my  laughter 


288  «  PUNCHINELLO '» 

would  not  be  checked ;  even  Anthony  was  in- 
fected to  such  measure  as  wrung  from  him  the 
shadow  of  a  smile.  Granby  writes  that  if  I 
will  meet  him  in  Taunton  woods,  he  will  show 
me  proofs  incontestable  of  the  truth  of  his  foul 
tale.  I  will  not  go  ;  and  yet — Taunton  woods 
is  five  miles  as  the  crow  flies,  a  generous  seven 
as  we  trudge  it.  Anthony  would  never  know, 
and  I  should  find  out  once  and  for  all  on  what 
fool's  evidence  Granby  has  manufactured  this 
foul  lie." 

My  hands  shook  when  I  would  have  turned 
the  leaves ;  the  pages  seemed  glued  together. 
Did  I  pray  the  record  break  off  short,  and  the 
next  leaf  prove  blank  ?  But  there  was  more 
to  come. 

"It  is  true — true !  O  God,  what  shall  I 
do?  If  Anthony  come  to  know!  I  went  to 
the  woods  and  met  him.  At  first  he  would 
have  ignored  the  subject  and  only  prayed  my 
pardon,  begging  me  again  receive  him  at  my 
house.  But  when  I  told  him  that  never  again 
should  he  stand  under  roof  of  mine  he  fell 
to  the  old  evil  laugh,  and  brought  from  his 
pocket  a  packet  of  letters,  old,  yellowed  with 
years,  written  by  Harry  to  an  uncle  of  Granby's. 
Oh,  shame  —  shame !      Till  this    day    I    was 


"PUNCHINELLO"  289 

ignorant  of  the  meaning  of  the  word,  now  I 
cannot  hold  my  head  erect.  If  Anthony  come 
to  know ! "  The  phrase  beat  as  a  pulse  through 
the  history  of  her  pain. 

With  monstrous  difficulty  I  deciphered  the 
swerving,  blotted  lines,  piecing  together  the 
pathetic  incoherent  words,  till  the  story  of  her 
undoing  lay  clear  before  me. 

"  Ir  these  letters  he  tells  of  having  found 
the  loveliest  maid  wandering  in  the  streets  of 
Florence,  and  of  having  taken  her  to  his  house. 
*  It  is  good,'  he  writes,  *  to  have  a  woman  about 
me  again  ;  when  one  has  grown  habituated  to 
them,  it  is  exceeding  dreary  without  the  frou- 
frou of  a  skirt,  and  this  one  is  passing  lovely, 
fairer  than  Netta  Lascelles,  and  of  more  wit 
than  my  little  Spanish  love.'  He  described 
her  beauty  minutely,  with  an  exact  observance 
that  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  write.  It  could 
not  be  my  Harry  who  wrote  so  obscenely. 
Christ  save  me  from  madness  !  He  is  writing 
to  an  old  friend,  and  is  very  free  ;  my  face 
burned  as  I  read.  I  opened  another  letter,  a 
year  later.  *  My  beauty  has  tired  of  me,  but 
left  me  a  tribute.  Impossible  though  it  sounds, 
I  am  fond  of  the  squawking  brat ;  it  has  its 
mother's  eyes  and  is  of  her  sex.     Poor  little 

T 


290  "  PUNCHINELLO  " 

devil,  it  shall  have  a  chance!  I  wrote  to-day 
to  the  Lady  Agatha,  my  sister-in-law,  to  beg 
her  stand  godparent,  by  proxy  ;  she  had  always 
a  soft  place  in  her  heart  for  scapegrace  Harry. 
My  relatives  think  I  have  made  a  great  match. 
Ho,  ho  !  Laugh  with  me,  old  friend.  I  dare 
not  write  to  the  Dallas  tribe,  though  my  brother 
be  dead.  We  split,  he  and  I,  when  I  tired  of 
Netta  Lascelles.' 

"  Another  letter  he  showed  me.  *  I  came  to 
hear  of  these  letters,'  he  said,  with  a  touch  of 
shame,  *  when  through  an  affair  it  was  de- 
sirable that  I  should  leave  England  for  a  time. 
My  uncle  wrote  to  Dallas — here  is  the  letter 
you  should  have  read  first  —  the  others  fol- 
lowed.' 

"  *  I  am  sorry  to  hear  that  your  nephew  is  in 
trouble ;  let  him  come  and  visit  me  under  an 
alias.  Things  will  blow  over,  and  I  will  take 
heed  to  his  welfare  while  he  is  in  gay  Florence.' 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?  What  shall  I  do  ?  The 
world  seems  rocking.  I  cannot  doubt  him 
longer.  Incontrovertibly  he  speaks  the  truth. 
When  I  had  finished  the  letters  and  stood  silent, 
unable  to  move,  he  took  me  in  his  arms  and 
kissed  me.  I  made  no  resistance.  What  am  I  ? 
O  God,  if  Tony  come  to  know ! 


"PUNCHINELLO"  291 

"  I  returned  home  safely.  Tony  was  in  a 
fantastic  mood,  he  insisted  on  my  reading  a 
foolish  allegory,  telling  of  a  maid  and  a  lily. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  he  thrust,  under  cover  of 
this  tale  of  hidden  foulness,  a  hint  at  me.  But 
that  cannot  be.  I  am  dazed  with  trouble,  yet  I 
managed  to  match  his  humour,  and  belittleing 
his  choice,  read  him  some  gay  verses  that  I 
picked  at  random  from  out  a  volume  lying  by 
his  side." 

Again  a  space  in  the  narrative  of  events. 
When  she  wrote  again  it  was  as  if  she  had 
passed  through  some  severe  crisis,  and  that 
danger  had  nerved  her  wits.' 

"  I  must  coax  those  letters  from  him.  To  me 
my  mother  wit !  Despair  helped  no  man  yet,  and 
in  truth  Granby  is  but  a  fool — such  part  of  him 
as  is  not  a  brute.  Appeals  to  his  compassion 
are  but  waste  of  breath.  Suppose  I  feign  the 
love  he  demands ;  perhaps,  being  satisfied,  he 
will  tire  of  me  and  quit  this  place." 

The  ignorance  matched  the  innocence.  I 
could  not  choose  but  smile ;  my  sorrow  and 
my  anger  seemed  things  afar.  I  burned  to  read 
faster,  but  oft-times  the  paper  was  blurred  to 
such  extent  as  frayed  my  patience  to  rags. 
Strangely  cool  and  calm  I  felt ;  the  pages  held 


292  "PUNCHINELLO" 

me,  and  it  seemed  that  other  eyes  than  mine 
traversed  the  lines,  marching  in  time  with  my 
reading,  lingering  where  I  lingered,  hurrying 
where  I  made  speed. 

"  He  bade  me  meet  him  to-night ;  I  was  late 
returning.  Tony  looked  strangely  at  me,  and 
in  my  terror  I  reproached  him  for  baseless 
suspicions.  Yet  he  had  not  accused  me.  Fool 
— Fool — Fool ! 

"  A  little  more  and  I  go  mad.  Cosmo  is  ever 
in  our  house.  My  self-control  is  slipping  from 
me ;  to-day  I  almost  screamed  for  a  passing 
sound.  I  cannot  think  what  ails  me.  I  am 
beset  with  fears  and  hopes.  Is  it  because  a 
new  life  stirs  within  me?  Or  does  a  sick 
fancy,  born  of  distress,  mock  me?  God 
help  me,  I  am  with  child.  I  had  thought  to 
be  so  glad,  and  now  I  scarcely  dare  inform 
Tony.  He  looks  at  me  curiously,  and  there 
is  a  lurking  fury  in  his  face  that  frightens  me. 
But  he  can  know  nothing  ;  I  am  full  of  fancies. 
Yet  surely  it  was  no  fancy  when  he  flung  me 
from  him  to-night  when  I  would  have  kissed 
him.  I  am  lonely — very  lonely  ;  still  I  hope. 
He  knows  nothing  ;  he  meets  Cosmo  as  though 
he  were  his  dear  friend.     I  am  afraid." 

The  room  seemed  strangely  cold,  yet  without 


"PUNCHINELLO"  293 

the  world  was  lapped  in  a  flood  of  glaring  sun- 
shine, and  the  creeper  blazed  as  though  drenched 
with  blood. 

"  He  knows,  and  all  my  endeavour  is  for 
naught.  To-day  I  told  him  of  our  coming 
child — how  long  I  have  dreamed  of  this  hour — 
and  he  looked  coldly  at  me.  *  Have  you  no 
shame  ? '  he  said,  and  no  word  more." 

For  the  life  of  me  I  could  not  resist  look- 
ing over  my  shoulder,  but  there  was  no  one 
there.  I  knew  she  would  return,  and  read 
on  : — 

"  I  have  striven  to  tell  him  but  he  will  not 
hear,  and  I  am  afraid — afraid.  If  the  mother 
were  alive  she  would  help  me.  I  write  it 
dreading  no  denial,  for  she  is  dead.  In  truth, 
she  would  have  loathed  me.  She  had  but  one 
word  for  sinning  women  and  the  fruit  of  their 
love.  I  am  ill,  and  terribly  afraid.  Anthony 
regards  .me  as  though  I  were  a  foul  fester, 
and  a  little  while  ago  we  were  lovers  still. 
I  must  tell  him — I  must.  But  he  and 
Granby  will  quarrel,  and  what  will  the  end 
hold  ?  " 

Again  I  was  aware  of  the  presence  behind 
me  ;  her  breath  was  on  my  neck,  the  perfume 
of  her  hair  floated  in  the  air  as  she  leant  over 


294  "PUNCHINELLO" 

my  shoulder  with  eager  eyes  that  scanned  the 
page.  I  dare  not  turn  for  fear  of  affrighting 
her ;  but  I  spoke  in  the  silence,  anxious  to  re- 
assure her.  "  Dear,  I  understand,"  I  said,  for 
she  was  troubled  I  knew  that  in  her  hurry  and 
fever  she  had  omitted  something  of  moment. 

"  To-day  Cosmo " 

I  filled  the  blank  to  the  fulness  of  the  insult 
that  had  been  too  black  for  her  to  trace,  and 
remembered  with  a  great  joy  that  Granby  lay 
under  no  protecting  earth. 

"  I  have  missed  another  chance  of  making  my 
confession,  but  the  clouds  are  lifting.  Tony 
does  not  know,  but  he  has  seen  us  together — 
now  all  is  explained.  This  evening  we  sat 
together  in  the  shadows  of  the  dying  day,  and 
for  all  my  endeavours  my  weakness  overpowered 
me.  I  felt  that  I  could  suffer  my  life  no  more. 
Only  half  a  word  I  said  to  him,  but  he  met  me 
as  though  my  cry  had  unsealed  his  lips,  and 
in  a  great  flood  of  passionate  words  that  tripped 
each  other  up  he  told  me  of  what  he  had  seen ; 
how  he  had  watched  our  meetings  and  seen 
Granby  take  me  in  his  arms.  Then  the  old 
cry  of  his  deformity.  He  should  never  have 
wedded  me,  and  for  all  his  anger  his  voice 
broke   suddenly    and   he   sobbed   some    vague 


"PUNCHINELLO"  295 

word  of  having  undone  my  life.  Only  he  had 
believed  I  loved  him.  O  God !  for  all  his 
genius  was  there  ever  such  a  fool  ?  Now — now 
in  this  most  difficult  hour,  maddened  as  I  am 
by  trouble,  I  could  shake  Tony  as  a  froward 
child  for  his  foolishness.  Of  course,  appearances 
stand  terribly  against  me ;  but  what  are  appear- 
ances ?  An  Tony  swore  to  me  with  his  dying 
breath  that  he  loved  me  not,  I  should  not 
believe  him,  but  should  make  excuses  for  his 
folly  in  his  dying  as  I  do  now  for  his  folly  in 
his  living.  Who  knows,  his  love  may  survive 
even  this  ordeal.  To  hearken  to  him,  a  stranger 
would  think  that  we  were  wedded  in  the  dark, 
and  that  I  first  saw  his  crooked  back  after  our 
marriage  was  sealed  and  we  were  linked 
together  for  better,  for  worse,  for  all  our  days. 
My  spirits  are  lighter,  though  I  fled  away  from 
him  in  tears,  fearing  every  minute  I  should  out 
with  the  truth.  I  cannot  bear  to  be  lowered 
in  my  love's  eyes.  How  tell  him  ?  No  longer 
will  I  remain  under  that  devil's  thumb!  I 
would  I  had  told  Tony  at  first ;  my  temporising 
has  availed  me  nothing  ;  and  after  the  other 
day — I  blush  in  the  dark  when  I  think  of  it. 
Yet,  to  be  just,  what  could  I  expect  ?  Assuredly 
if  I  do  not  tell  him  Cosmo  will.     *  Your  Lilli- 


296  "PUNCHINELLO" 

putian  has  a  proud  spirit,'  he  crowed  lately  at 
me.  *  I  broke  it  once  when  a  child,  but  it  has 
mended  bravely,  and  is  stiffer  than  of  yore ;  it 
needs  my  care  again.' 

"  The  child  is  father  to  the  man.  The  devil 
who  so  torments  me  has  changed  in  no  whit 
from  the  coward  who  jeered  at  my  poor  love's 
deformity.  I  hate  him,  but  all  my  hate  is 
powerless  to  wreak  him  the  tiniest  evil.  What 
shall  I  say  to  Tony — how  begin?  After  all, 
it  is  not  my  fault ;  but  he  is  so  proud,  so 
sensitive.  I  can  almost  find  it  in  my  heart  to 
rejoice  that  the  mother  is  no  more  ;  she  would 
die  of  the  shame.  What  will  Cecily  say  ?  She 
is  shortly  to  be  wedded,  and  will  drift  out  of 
our  lives ;  perchance,  she  will  never  know — it 
matters  not.  Suppose  Anthony  scorn  me.  Me- 
thinks  he  would  try  to  hide  it,  for  he  has  a 
generous  heart  and  wounds  no  one  willingly. 
But  I  should  discover  it. 

"  I  hope  much  from  this  new  life,  which  I 
pray  may  bind  our  two  more  firmly  together. 
Tony  will  forgive  it  for  the  child's  sake.  If 
only  I  were  not  such  a  coward !  I  cannot  tell 
him.  I  know  not  how  to  word  it.  It  sounds 
worse  outspoken  than  dimly  sketched  in  the 
thoughts.     It  is  terrible  to  be  degraded  in  the 


"  PUNCHINELLO »'  29? 

eyes  of  those  we  love.  I  will  not  tell  him. 
No,  coward  that  I  am,  whatever  my  story  cost 
me  1  must  out  with  it." 

I  put  my  hand  behind  me  seeking  her,  but 
my  fingers  closed  on  space.  Still  I  knew  she 
was  there ;  her  gown  rustled  as  she  stepped 
back  a  pace  and  eluded  me. 

"  Indubitably  the  clouds  are  lifting ;  almost 
— almost  I  discern  a  finger  of  blue.  Ooterwint 
has  been  here  in  reference  to  the  appointment 
of  organist  at  the  Abbey  ;  it  is  a  big  plum,  and 
many  hungry  mouths  are  open  to  receive  it 
when  it  drops.  He  thinks  Tony  has  a  good 
chance,  but  he  must  haste  to  town.  He  is, 
indeed,  very  young,  but  Purcell  was  younger. 
It  is  a  long  journey,  and  we  start  as  soon  as 
possible.  Adieu,  Master  Granby,  for  the 
present.  When  we  return  " — surely  a  sob  came 
from  behind  my  chair,  but  I  could  not  look — 
"  Tony  will  know  all — all — all^  and  you  may 
do  your  worst.  Perhaps,  after  all,  he  will  not 
be  so  sorely  angered  as  I  feared.  All  this  time 
I  have  fretted  myself  for  naught,  for  he  obviously 
knows  nothing,  and  is  only  jealous — this  time, 
I  must  admit,  with  reason.  I  have  been  a  fool, 
so  has  Tony.  If  I  saw  him  kissing  another 
maid  in  the  woods,  straightway  would  I  inquire 


298  «*  PUNCHINELLO" 

the  reason,  not  sit,  as  is  apparently  the  mode 
of  Tony,  eating  my  heart  out  at  a  little  distance, 
and  then,  when  some  three  months  and  two 
weeks  have  passed,  make  a  flare.  I  would 
that  the  spring-tide  was  breaking,  and  that 
the  autumn  and  dark  winter  lay  behind.  I 
should  have  a  tiny  advocate  then  to  help  my 
cause  ;  but  I  must  be  brave.  This  is  but 
August,  and  it  has  still  two  weeks  to  run.  I 
have  a  feeling  that  all  will  yet  be  well,  and  this 
time  but  a  hideous  nightmare  of  which  we 
shall  never  speak. 

"  We  coach  to  town  to-morrow.  Anthony 
is  in  a  fearful  temper,  all  glares  and  scowls,  and 
mostly  spends  his  hours  tramping  the  lanes. 
I  am  beset  with  a  fancy  that  he  seeks  Cosmo 
Granby.  To  God  we  were  away !  Granby 
will  not  think  it  worth  his  while  to  follow  us 
for  so  short  a  space  of  time,  and  before  we 
return  he  will  be  powerless  to  harm  me.  How 
proud  I  shall  be  if  fortune  favours  Tony.  My 
mind  swings  between  his  possible  success  and 
my  trouble. 

"  It  is  a  terrible  thing  to  say  to  him,  but 
after  all  not  so  bad  as  what  he  suspects,  and 
it  is  not  my  fault.  (Now  I  hardly  believe  it  of 
Harry,    I   love   him    still.)       I    could    see  he 


"PUNCHINELLO"  2^9 

believed  nothing  of  my  denial.    Poor  Tony !  I 

wonder  Granby   is   still   alive.     Still,   what   he 

suspects  is  false,  and   so   easier  to  bear.     But 

the  truth,  the  hideous  truth,  and  he  fastidious, 

sensitive  to  a  fault.      When    I  think  of  how  I 

welcomed  Granby,   seeing   in   him   the   means 

by   which  my  happiness    had   been   preserved 

to   me,  and  how  foul   he  has  proved  himself, 

I  could  tear  out  the  tongue  that  greeted  him. 

I   hate   him  —  hate   him.      If  aught    give   me 

courage  it  will  be  that  I  outwit  his  malice.     Oft 

I  sit  and  seem  to  hear  him  pouring  out  his  tale 

to  Tony,  all  adorned  with  gibes  and  sneers. 

"What  avails  this  waste  of  words?     But  it 

relieves   my   heart.     Without  these   pages  me- 

thinks   I   had  gone  mad.     Here  I    register  my 

vow.     Before  we  turn  our  backs  on  town,  Tony 

shall   know  all.     No   care  can   be   worse  than 

this.      I   am    very    weary,   and    I    have    none 

in   whom   to   rest.      Between    my   love   and    I 

stands  a  great  wall  ;  but  it  will  not  be  for  much 

longer,  and  Tony  and  I    have   yet    many   fair 

years  before  us  in  which  to  atone  for  this  sad 

waste  of  months." 

«  %  «  « 

When  I  turned   and  would  have  kissed  her, 
and  with  sweet  words  made  all  well  again,  there 


300  "PUNCHINELLO '' 

was  only  space,  and  Cosmo's  grinning  face 
mouthing  at  me  from  out  a  corner.  At  last ! 
I  remember  a  great  exultation  leaping  in  my 
veins,  a  wild  rush  at  the  phantom,  and  the 
crash  as  my  head  met  the  wall.  There  was  a 
great  hurry  of  people;  and  men  held  me,  saying 
I  was  mad ;  and  then  a  brief  struggle,  after 
which  for  many  days  I  knew  nothing,  not  even 
that  my  love  was  dead,  but  dreamed  in  my 
delirium  that  she  and  I  went  drifting,  drifting 
down  an  eternal  river,  talking  sweet  foolishness 
one  to  the  other,  and  that  suddenly  the  waters 
rose  and  engulfed  us,  and  Nancy  cried  "  the 
other "  ;  but  I  would  not  hear,  and  still  she 
struggled.  And  a  great  beast,  with  the  face  of 
Cosmo,  who  lay  upon  the  banks  doubled  with 
laughter,  gaily  shrieked,  "The  courageous 
Lilliputian  ! "  And  there  was  no  more  water, 
only  land  ;  and  a  great  crowd  collected  round 
a  newly-dug  grave.  The  priest  had  the  face 
of  Granby,  and  he  seized  the  coffin  and  flung 
it  in  the  gloomy  hole,  and  I  knew  that  Nan 
was  within  and  would  have  stayed  him. 
"  Deliver  me  not  into  the  bitter  pains  of  eternal 
death " ;  her  voice  was  thick  with  sobs  and 
terror,  but  they  held  me  back,  and  now  it  is 
too  late. 


XX 


YEAR  in,  year  out,  I  sought  Cosmo  Granby 
and  was  for  ever  baffled,  although  there 
were  times  when  success  seemed  so  near  that  I 
paused  on  its  threshold  and  whispered  to  my 
dead — so  she  should  sleep  the  easier — that  soon 
she  would  be  avenged.  Only  in  this  long  pro- 
bation I  learned  patience,  and  for  all  the  sicken- 
ing failure  of  the  year  played  no  mad  juggle 
with  my  desire  or  rashly  strove  to  wrest  it  from 
the  hand  of  Fate,  but  grew  ever  more  stealthy 
and  unhurried,  knowing  that  he  who  would  win 
must  learn  to  fold  his  hands  and  wait. 

I  had  followed  him  over  weary  continents,  but 
always  it  seemed  as  though  some  supernatural 
power  protected  him,  and  though  oft-times  he 
had  but  a  few  minutes  start  of  me,  still  he  kept 
that  start,  and  so  we  wandered,  pursuer  and 
pursued,  through  the  length  and  breadth  of 
Europe. 

Once  he  was  so  near  that  I  could  have  sobbed 
for  disappointment  when,  as  ever,  he  eluded  me. 

301 


^2  "  PUNCHINELLO  ^» 

One  Easter-tide  we  kneeled  together  in  St. 
Peter's  at  Rome,  but  in  the  great  multitude  I 
saw  him  not  till  the  service  was  almost  closed. 
The  Host  was  raised  high  and  the  crowds 
abased  themselves  in  adoration ;  lower,  lower 
bent  the  heads  of  the  people  in  the  silence  ;  still, 
individually,  when  the  eyes  travelled  over  the 
closely-packed  masses  they  seemed  to  swerve 
and  sway  as  though  stirred  by  a  silent  wind. 
Through  the  incense  a  bell  sounded,  telling  of 
the  Presence,  and  in  the  monstrous  tension  of 
the  moment  a  woman's  voice  smote  sharply 
through  the  air.  Startled,  I  lifted  my  eyes  and 
met  Cosmo's  gaze  rivetted  on  me  in  a  stare  of 
terror.  I  smiled  back  on  him — long  had  I 
waited  for  this  hour — and  tried  to  make  my 
way  through  the  serried  ranks  of  worshippers 
that  hemmed  me  in.  He  too  rose  and  carved 
his  way  out  towards  the  great  doors,  indifferent 
as  I  to  the  shocked  stares  and  muttered  execra- 
tions that  followed  us.  But  when  I  reached 
the  exit  he  was  gone,  and  though  I  searched 
Rome,  tramping  the  streets  all  day  and  half 
the  night  till  my  limbs  failed  me  and  I  could 
do  no  more  for  very  weariness,  my  search 
availed  me  nothing. 

When  next  I  heard  of  him  he  was  in  Paris,  and 


"PUNCHINELLO"  303 

thither  I  went,  but  too  late.  -  It  was  a  year 
since  my  darling  was  done  to  death,  and  I  was 
starving  for  my  vengeance,  but  seemed  no 
nearer  to  it  than  in  the  first  weeks: 

Then  one  day,  when  hope  was  burning  very 
low,  God  heard. 

In  despair  I  had  returned  to  London  and 
was  striving  to  stun  remembrance  with  work. 
Slowly  the  magic  of  my  Art  soothed  me,  and 
there  were  times  when  my  sorrow  lifted  for  a 
space  and  I  was  almost  happy.  But  these  were 
brief  interludes  succeeded  by  hours  the  blacker 
for  the  respite. 

At  this  date  an  infectious  fever  was  raging  in 
town,  and  men  were  falling  like  flies.  It  was  a 
fearful  time  ;  for  all  went  in  terror  of  their  neigh- 
bours, regarding  even  their  nearest  and  dearest 
with  suspicion,  and  there  was  hardly  a  house  in 
which  death  had  not  levied  tribute. 

One  morning  I  woke,  conscious  of  a  curious 
heaviness  in  my  limbs  and  a  racing  pulse.  They 
were  portents  of  the  terror  that  was  thinning  the 
streets,  and  for  the  moment  I  was  seized  with  a 
great  fear  that  death  might  balk  me  of  my  de- 
sire. But  as  the  day  advanced  my  strength  re- 
turned to  me  in  measure,  and  cursing  myself  for 
a  weak  fool  I  dragged  myself  from  my  bed,  and 


304  "  PUNCHINELLO  " 

pricked  by  a  renewal  of  the  old  energy,  again 
took  up  my  search.  My  limbs  ached  piteously, 
almost  refusing  their  office,  but  I  was  impelled 
by  a  foreign  force  that  urged  me  to  renewed 
effort  as  often  as  I  lagged.  Reasonless  though 
it  was,  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  heard  a  voice 
murmuring  courage,  and  that  before  the  night 
fell  I  should  have  attained  my  end. 

The  afternoon  crept  on,  the  gray  shadows  be- 
gan to  haze  the  world,  and  I  had  seen  nothing. 

Then  suddenly  my  heart  leaped  into  my 
mouth,  for  walking  down  the  Mall,  indivi- 
dualized from  the  passers-by  on  account  of  his 
great  height  and  heroic  proportions,  I  imagined 
I  recognized  Granby. 

My  futile  stalking  had  taught  me  something 
of  strategy,  and  I  shadowed  the  man  carefully, 
taking  prodigious  precautions  against  his  sight- 
ing me,  and  fingering  at  whiles  the  stiletto  I  al- 
ways carried — I  had  learned  the  habit  in  Italy, 
and  it  clung  to  me.  He  walked  slowly,  often 
tarrying  to  exchange  a  greeting  with  an  ac- 
quaintance, and  men  looked  after  him  with  a 
smile.  As  I  gained  on  him  a  trifle  I  noticed 
that  he  was  much  the  worse  for  wine,  and 
staggered  heavily  in  his  gait.  At  last  he  left 
the  frequented  parts  and  diverged  into  a  side 


"PUNCHINELLO"  305 

street.  I  followed  him  with  difficulty,  striving 
to  knit  my  wits  together  as  I  went,  for  a  re- 
crudescence of  the  morning's  symptoms  held 
me.  My  heart  leaped  and  halted  in  great 
bounds,  as  though  it  would  burst  my  ribs  ;  I 
burned  and  froze  alternately,  while  a  great  nausea 
overwhelmed  me.  At  last  mine  enemy  hurried 
into  a  low  coffee-house,  and  I  lingered  with- 
out a  moment,  struggling  to  master  my  excite- 
ment. I  was  about  to  enter  when  the  man  I 
had  followed  hurriedly  re-issued  from  the  en- 
trance and  I  found  my  eyes  had  played  me 
false — it  was  not  Granby. 

Something  had  apparently  sobered  him,  for  he 
looked  scared  to  death,  and  went  flying  up  the 
street  as  though  an  enemy  were  at  his  heels. 
His  likeness  to  my  quarry  was  marvellous,  but 
in  my  passionate  disappointment  I  paid  little 
heed  to  the  curious  resemblance  and  cursed  my 
easy  gullibility.  Now  the  zest  of  the  chase  was 
over,  and  I  again  found  my  revenge  resolved 
into  a  vain  mirage,  my  sickness  overwhelmed 
me  with  fresh  violence. 

Knowing  the  terror  of  infection  that  reigned 
I  doubted  it  being  worth  my  while  to  seek  re- 
fuge in  a  public  resort,  and  so  at  first  made  no 
endeavour  to  enter  the  coffee-house.     But  the 

II 


3o6  "PUNCHINELLO" 

darkness  was  increasing  rapidly,  and  my  limbs 
failed  me  when  I  strove  to  push  on,  and  think- 
ing that  in  common  charity  they  would  at  least 
seek  me  a  hackney-coach,  I  pushed  open  the 
door  and  entered. 

Commonly  full  of  chattering  gossips,  the 
place  was  now  deserted  but  for  two  servants,  one 
of  whom  as  I  entered  approached  me  with 
mouth  all  agape.  "  Sir,"  he  began,  but  the 
other  stopped  him,  bidding  him  hold  his  peace, 
and  turning  towards  me  asked  what  I  wanted. 

When  I  replied  that  a  private  room  would 
best  suit  my  need,  he  pointed  up  the  stairs  and 
mumbled  directions  that  I  did  not  catch,  but 
made  no  offer  of  practical  guidance.  I  was  too 
glad  to  get  a  refuge  to  resent  his  incivility,  and 
stumbled  up  the  flights  with  swimming  head 
and  trembling  knees.  "  Room  number  five  !  " 
he  yelled  at  me  as  I  reached  the  top,  and  I  stood 
in  a  darkness  that  mocked  the  pale  gleam  of 
the  lantern  he  had  thrust  into  my  hand.  Four 
— two — the  numbers  ran  irregularly,  printed  in 
confusing  hieroglyphics  that  rendered  their 
value  nil  from  a  utilitarian  point  of  view.  I 
staggered  on  till  I  came  to  what  I  imagined  tc 
represent  a  five,  and  pushed  forward  the  door 
with  a  sigh  of  thankfulness. 


"PUNCHINELLO"  307 

By  careful  generalling  of  the  flickering  light  I 
discerned  that  the  room  was  untenanted  and 
marshalled  to  a  severe  and  comfortless  order. 
The  bed,  pushed  up  against  the  wall,  was  covered 
with  a  white  sheet,  the  table  was  bare  of  all 
necessaries,  and  a  broken  blind  flapped  restlessly 
against  the  window.  Still  there  was  at  least 
quiet  and  peace,  and  flinging  the  door  to  behind 
me,  I  staggered  to  the  bed,  my  one  thought  a 
pillow  on  which  to  lay  my  head. 

The  lantern  I  had  dropped  at  the  other  end 
of  the  room,  and  only  the  faintest  flare  glim- 
mered upon  the  bed,  on  which  the  shadow  of 
the  blind  swept  forwards  and  backwards,  mak- 
ing fantastic  arabesques  of  light  and  shade. 

For  all  the  shifting  shades  it  seemed  to  me  as 
I  approached  the  bed  that  something  lay 
beneath  the  stretched  linen,  and  I  lifted  the 
sheet. 

A  dead  man  lay  there  with  face  turned  to  the 
wall  and  spread  arms  flung  wide,  as  if  in  one 
last  despairing  fight  for  breath. 

At  this  moment  my  first  feeling  was  one  of 
anger  that  I  should  find  myself  thus  cheated  of 
my  bed  ;  my  voice  was  weak  as  an  infant's 
when  I  tried  to  call  for  help,  my  strength  was 
ebbing  fast     Hardly  could   I  drag  the  corpse 


3o8  "  PUNCHINELLO  " 

from  the  bed  of  which  it  stood  no  longer  in 
need,  and  for  which  I  so  craved.  The  man  was 
obviously  but  lately  dead,  the  rigour  of  death 
was  hardly  on  him,  and  as  I  dragged  him  in 
futile  weakness  his  head  fell  to  the  side,  and  his 
eyes  mad,  tortured  with  a  terror  written  in  them 
that  mocked  life  in  its  quick  intensity,  met  mine. 

0  God !  O  God !  Death  had  cheated  me. 
With  his  staring  eyes  and  dropped  jaw  it  was  as 
though  Granby  mocked  me  from  beyond  the 
grave  as  he  had  mocked  me  in  life  that,  as  ever, 

1  was  impotent  to  harm  him. 

For  the  moment  my  strength  returned,  and 
remembering  my  stiletto,  with  beast-like  fury  I 
hacked  and  cut  the  mouth  that  had-  so  fouled 
my  darling  and  the  eyes  that  had  gloated  on 
her  beauty,  and  with  each  stab  I  minded  look 
and  word  of  hers.  "  O  God !  "  she  had  cried, 
"  if  Anthony  come  to  know  !  " 

I  laughed  and  wept  as  I  worked — so  much 
for  her — so  much  for  the  unborn  life — so  much 
for  me.  They  were  heavy  items  and  swelled  to 
a  handsome  bill — what  say  you,  Granby?  It 
was  good  work  well  done,  but  I  cried  to  think 
that  there  could  come  no  crimson  tide  to  mark 
the  hour.  The  fever  fired  me,  bringing  mocking 
voices    and   strange   faces   in   its   train.     Dead 


"PUNCHINELLO"  309 

Cosmo  grinned  at  me  with  the  mouth  I  had  so 
deftly  widened,  and  on  his  slit  lips  hovered 
"  Punchinello,"  but  his  eyes  were  gone,  and  I 
was  penitent,  regretting  my  hastiness.  That 
stare  of  terror  had  been  balm  to  me — perhaps 
after  all  he  pafd  the  bill.  What  did  he  see 
when  he  lay  untended,  slowly  a-dying  to  print 
an  agony  that  scorned  death's  effacements  ? 
What  did  he  see  ?  Perhaps  only  a  girl  with  a 
face  like  a  flower  and  a  voice  that  matched  run- 
ning water.     Water !     Water ! 

In  my  delirium  I  had  dreamed  of  a  great 
flood,  and  as  I  worked  lovingly,  gardening  his 
face  and  tasting  the  moment  to  its  fullest 
savour,  a  great  river  poured  into  the  room  from 
behind  that  flapping  blind,  and  on  it,  undrowned, 
was  borne  my  sweetheart  laughing — laughing  as 
she  was  swept  past  us  ;  but  in  her  hands  she 
carried  a  dead  child,  and  her  face  was  white 
and  wild  with  pain.  The  walls  of  the  room 
faded  away,  and  the  great  river  in  monstrous 
rolling  waves  rushed  to  its  goal — a  grave.  On 
its  edge  she  danced  and  flung  wild  kisses,  and 
Granby  suddenly  appeared  and  would  have 
taken  her  in  his  arms,  but  she  flung  herself 
back  with  a  great  cry  and  went  head-down  into 
the  grav©.     And  Cosmo  shovelled  earth  upon 


310  "PUNCHINELLO" 

her— such  heavy  earfh  and  she  so  small — and 
when  I  prayed  him  not,  he  mocked  me  in  his 
great  strength.  The  scene  changed — I  was  back 
in  God's  acre  by  the  river.  .  .  .  Darling,  listen, 
you  have  slept  long  enough.  The  east  burns  red 
and  the  world  is  stirring  from  its  sleep.  .  .  .  She 
will  not  hear.  ...  A  bird  is  carolling.  ...  But 
she  is  deaf  and  still  sleeps  for  all  a  man's  mad 
crying.  Mad !  mad  !  They  shall  not  part  us.  Who 
says  '^Mad"}  "This  fever  sends  the  bravest 
brains  reeling,"  says  another.  Oh,  foolish  words 
they  speak  !  "  Sir,  I  am  not  mad."  Is  that  my 
voice?  It  screams  like  a  frightened  woman's 
pipe.  "No,  no,"  they  whisper  soothingly,  and 
part  us,  though  I  cling  to  him  so  lovingly — I 
cannot  bear  to  leave  my  work  half  done.  The 
wrong  room  ?  The  wrong  room — if  so  it  be, 
the  finger  of  God  guided  me.  I  will  not  let  him 
go ;  but  they  are  the  stronger  ;  so  we  part. 
Master  Granby,  till  we  meet  again  in  Hell. 
"Watch  for  me,  for  I  shall  surely  come,"  I 
whispered  where  his  ears  had  been ;  but  they 
dragged  me  away  with  their  foolish  cry  of 
"  mad,"  and  flung  the  sheet  again  over  the  thing 
on  the  bed. 

«  ♦  «  « 

For,  one  long  year  my  brain  was  numbed  to 


"PUNCfflNELLO'^  311 

all  things,  and  I  moved  among  men  as  a  ghost 
—among  them,  not  of  them — with  difficulty 
grasping  the  meaning  of  their  commonest 
phrases  and  acts,  and  indifferent  to  the  curious 
glances  cast  askance  at  me,  indifferent  when 
with  pursed  lips  and  nodding  heads  they  called 
me  mad  ;  indifferent  when  Reuben,  weeping, 
brought  me  tidings  that  my  sister  bade  fair  to 
slip  away  in  the  throes  of  her  travail ;  indiffer- 
ent when  the  scale  turned  in  her  favour  and  he 
sang  aloud  for  joy  hanging  over  the  little  life 
that  had  threatened  to  cost  so  dear.  These 
things  touched  me  not ;  what  had  I  to  do  with 
hope  or  despair  ?  But  in  my  mind  there  lay,  I 
knew,  a  covered  place,  and  sometimes,  as  I  grew 
stronger  and  my  memory  strengthened,  it  be- 
came more  and  more  difficult  to  ignore  it. 

At  last  it  was  no  longer  possible,  and  the 
ghosts  of  my  past  clamoured  round  me  and 
would  no  more  be  silenced,  and  I  understood 
why  men  looked  queerly  at  me. 

Now,  as  once  before,  my  music  saved  me,  and 
I  travelled  and  studied,  flinging  myself  into  my 
work  with  the  energy  of  despair  lest  that  little 
word  which  men  mixed  so  freely  with  talk  of 
me,  come  to  be  true,  and  I  indeed  go  mad. 
Striving,    striving,   always    striving    to    forget, 


312  "PUNCHINELLO" 

the  years  fled  after  one  another,  my  youth,  my 
strength  passed,  and  I  grew  old  and  white  ;  but 
I  had  not  forgotten,  although  my  ceaseless  en- 
deavour, that  filled  every  hour  with  work,  and 
left  no  nook  or  cranny  in  which  thought  could 
creep,  kept  my  madness  at  bay.  Success  came 
to  me,  more  than  I  had  ever  sought  or  dreamed  ; 
success  that  outstripped  the  furthest  length  of 
the  ambitious  programme  of  my  childhood ; 
success  that  frightened  me,  foreseeing  as  I  did 
a  time  when  all  goals  attained  and  the  zest  of 
endeavour  past  I  should  be  left  the  prey  of  my 
memories.  Yet  never  have  I  lost  the  sense  of 
detachment  with  life,  or  shaken  myself  free  of  a 
feeling  that  in  truth  my  life  ended  some  fifty 
years  ago,  and  that  what  has  since  passed  is  but 
a  string  of  dry  events,  episodes  and  incidents 
in  which  I  have  played  an  automatic  part,  even 
to  an  ugly  trick  played  on  a  dead  face.  To 
men  I  live  ;  to  myself  I  died  one  fair  day  in  a 
long  past  summer ;  died,  while  the  world  lay 
without  a  painted  picture  of  delight,  and  a  trail- 
ing creeper  flung  scarlet  tendrils  across  the 
open  lattice  ;  died  while  my  fingers  turned  the 
pages  of  a  girl's  foolish  tragedy.  Heart  of  my 
heart !  is  it  not  the  truth  ?  What  have  the 
years  held  but   a  great   emptiness  for   all   the 


"  PUNCHINELLO  "  313 

seeming  flare  and  flash,  and  it  has  availed 
nothing  to  its  end.  For  I  have  not  forgotten, 
neither  seemingly  have  you,  my  darling,  though 
you  are  over  chary  of  your  presence.  Dear, 
the  days  and  nights  outvie  each  other  in  length 
— I  am  very  desolate — and  you  come  but  rarely. 
Hush,  what  am  I  writing  i* — vapouring  wildly 
as  ever  when  I  should  write  carefully,  nor  give 
men  chaJnce  to  scoff  or  call  me  mad.  My  bio- 
grapher would  hold  his  shaking  sides  did  his 
eyes  fall  on  this  poor  supplement  to  his  grand 
volume.  He  brought  it  to  me  half  finished,  that 
I  might  correct  the  dates  and  lend  verisimili- 
tude to  his  graceful  legends.  Here  I  read  what 
formed  my  staple  food — there  what  style  I 
favoured  in  the  fashion  of  my  coat — of  a  falling 
off  in  my  work,  of  a  stupendous  recovery.  A 
good  biographer,  how  cleverly  he  writes,  lending, 
as  is  the  way  of  biographers,  momentousness 
to  nothings,  and  deep  meaning  to  veriest 
platitudes.  No  doubt  it  will  present  a  fair 
appearance  when,  handsomely  bound,  with  his 
patter  lying  in  generously  margined  pages,  it 
goes  forth  to  kind  readers.  I  have  seen  other 
volumes  and  wondered  at  the  poverty  of  the 
lives  described  ;  perhaps  they  also  had  a  supple- 
ment by  the  subject  that  held  the  gist. 


314  "PUNCHINELLO" 

Fool  that  I  am  (as  my  dear  one  wrote)  even 
now  with  the  end  of  my — shall  I  say  supple- 
ment ? — so  near,  I  cannot  keep  in  line,  but  must 
needs  rush  on  only  to  slink  back.  Why  do  I 
drivel  of  her  presence?  She  is  dead — lying 
among  thousands  such  with  a  green  grass  above 
her  that  speaks  by  its  luxuriance  of  ugly  things 
below ;  not  far  from  her  flows  the  river,  the 
perfect  flowing  river  that  smiles  so  sweetly,  yet 
beneath  which  lie  the  green  weeds  waiting — only 
waiting — for  their  prey. 

Perhaps,  as  the  generous  majority  has  it,  my 
brain  began  to  fail  again.  It  matters  not  the 
reason.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  five  years  ago,  as 
I  sat  in  my  rooms  at  Bruxelles  watching  the 
gay  tide  of  foreign  life  slip  past,  a  great  desire 
to  re-visit  the  home  that  I  had  not  seen  for  so 
many  years  came  over  me  ;  it  was  an  irresisti- 
ble impulse  that  refused  to  be  gainsaid,  and  I, 
knowing  well  that  I  did  foolishly  to  rend  open 
wounds  so  lightly  healed,  yet  obeyed  it. 

I  came  home  in  the  chill  of  the  early  spring, 
and  walked  again  in  the  old  paths  where  I  had 
so  often  wandered  with  my  love.  The  chill 
bands  of  the  winter  tide  still  held  the  world  ; 
the  sap  of  new  life  stirred  but  weakly  in  the 
budding    branches.      Though    the   days    were 


"PUNCHINELLO"  315 

drear  and  desolate,  with  but  scant  promise  of 
the  coming  glory,  I  could  not  withstand  the 
charm  that  held  me. 

Down  that  long  path,  bordered  by  brown 
earth,  tortured  to  fantastic  pattern,  all  starred  by 
breaking  crocuses,  she  had  rushed  with  quick, 
light  steps.  As  I  stared  with  drenched  eyes  at 
the  straight  stems  crowned  with  gay  cups  of 
colour,  I  minded  how  she  had  loved  these  bright 
heralds  of  spring.     Nan  !  Nan  ! 

On  the  bare  lawns  she  had  oft-times  wan- 
dered, walking  pensively  on  their  gay  summer 
carpet,  pulling  apart  poor  daisies.  Once  on  the 
tender  sward  that  cheated  foot-falls,  I  had  fol- 
lowed her  unperceived,  "//  m'aime"  she  had 
been  muttering;  "il  m'aime^  un  peUy  beaucoupy 
passionhnenty  pas  du  tout"  The  gold  heart, 
bereft  of  petals,  had  been  flung  angrily  over 
her  shoulders  and  struck  me  in  the  face.  Dost 
mind,  sweetheart  ? 

Within  it  was  worse,  for  the  shallow  stairs 
still  held  the  clatter  of  her  high-heeled  shoes, 
and  the  passages  were  haunted  by  the  rustle  of 
her  gown.  In  that  great  chair  she  had  sat  when 
first  I  saw  her  ;  there  we  had  quarrelled,  and 
here  we  had  made  our  peace  again.  My  coming 
meant  the  agony  of   a  resurrection ;    yet  for 


3i6  "PUNCHINELLO" 

all  the  pain  I  could  not  tear  myself  away,  and 
lived  on  in  the  old  house  till  spring  had  come 
and  gone  and  the  earth  lay  brown  and  burned 
under  a  summer  blaze  of  sun. 

One  afternoon  I  wrote  at  my  desk  as  was  my 
habit ;  but  strive  as  I  might  I  could  not  nail  my 
attention  to  my  work.  Against  the  present,  the 
might-have-been  lay  pitilessly  contrasted.  I 
was  too  old  to  fight  the  unequal  contest  with 
memory,  but  gave  myself  up  to  dreams.  Now, 
whenever  my  wits  refused  to  work,  I  let  myself 
go,  and  my  imagination  ran  riot,  picturing  the 
past,  revelling  with  exquisite  torture  in  what 
the  present  might  have  held. 

The  long  years  had  wrought  no  change  ;  from 
where  I  sat  I  could  see  the  rise  of  ground  where 
she  had  danced  that  summer  day  ;  the  glory  of 
the  gorse  lay  in  wide  yellow  sheets,  the  shadows 
wavered  on  the  lawns. 

Moved  by  a  desire  to  live  again,  as  much  as 
lay  ix}  my  power,  that  scene  of  long  ago,  I 
went  without  into  the  garden  taking  my  violin 
to  play  the  music  to  which  my  darling  had 
danced  in  the  far  past.  The  notes  broke 
through  the  air,  and  as  I  played  I  saw — as 
there  is  a  God  above  us — I  saw  my  dead  love 
dancing,  her  red  skirts  flying  wide,  the  twinkle 


"PUNCHINELLO'^  31? 

of  the  shoe-buckles  flashing  silverly  on  her 
feet  that  moved  gaily  to  the  rhythm  of  the 
time.  As  clearly  as  I  perceive  this  white  paper 
and  its  wavering  lines,  I  saw  my  Nan,  and  as 
I  looked  it  seemed  to  me  her  lips  stirred,  and 
with  the  clash  of  the  closing  phrase  her  voice 
came  to  me.  "  Bravo  !  Bravo  !  Punchinello  !  " 
she  cried,  and  then  was  gone. 

They  say  I  am  mad — but  I  am  not  mad.  I 
saw  her  then,  I  have  often  seen  her  since,  and 
my  sorrow  lies  the  lighter.  Would  she  come  had 
she  not  forgiven  me  ?  I  cannot  think  it.  Such 
love  when  lost  is  lost  to  all  eternity.  We 
know  better — she  and  I. 

Yet  one  great  flaw  mars  this  joy.  The  dead 
are  held  to  come  in  shadowy  lights  when  the 
world  lies  hushed,  creeping  through  the  mists  of 
twilight  or  when  night  veils  the  earth.  But  my 
love  comes  only  to  me  when  the  sun  blazes 
high  and  the  world  lies  in  the  full  glare  of  the 
summertide — one  little  space  in  the  year.  I 
am  happy  then,  but  for  long  long  months  I 
watch  desolate  and  she  comes  not,  neither  at 
any  time  is  she  near  me,  and  if  I  would  approach 
her  she  is  gone.  Still  I  see  her  and  I  hear  her 
voice,  and  for  my  love  of  these  things  I  am 
afraid  to  die;  lest  I  know  them  no  more. 


3i8  "PUNCHINELLO" 

What  to  me  is  Heaven  or  Hell  ?.  I  live  only 
for  the  hour  when  I  see  you  dancing,  my  pretty 
Nan,  with  the  gilded  slopes  behind  you ; 
dancing  on  the  dappled  lawns  while  flickering 
shadows  make  a  moving  mosaic  beneath  your 
feet,  and  the  winds  ruffle  your  curls,  dancing, 
dancing  till  you  can  dance  no  more  and  you 
fling  a  kiss  to  me.  "  Bravo ! "  you  cry.  I 
hear  the  tinkle  of  your  laughter.  "  Bravo ! 
Bravo  !  "  the  gay  notes  of  your  voice  leap  the 
long  years  and  make  music  in  my  brain, 
"Bravo!    Bravo!    Punchinello  1" 


FINLS, 


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her.  The  story  is  crisply  written  and  told  with  directness  and  in- 
sight into  the  ways  of  social  and  political  life.  The  characters  ar? 
strong  types  of  the  class  to  which  they  belong. 


L.    C.    PAGE    AND    COMPANY  S 


Ada  Vernham,  Actress.    By  richard  marsh. 

Author  of  "  Frivolities,"  "  Tom  Ossington's  Ghost,"  etc. 
Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  gilt  top,  300  pages      .         $1.50 

This  is  a  new  book  by  the  author  of  "  Frivolities,"  which  was 
extremely  well  received  last  season.  It  deals  with  the  inside  life  of 
the  London  stage,  and  is  of  absorbing  interest. 

The  Wallet  of  Kai  Lung.  By  ernest  bramah. 

Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  gilt  top,  350  pages      .        ^i-50 

This  is  the  first  book  of  a  new  writer,  and  is  exceedingly  well 
done.  It  deals  with  the  fortunes  of  a  Chinese  professional  story- 
teller, who  meets  with  many  surprising  adventures.  The  style 
suggests  somewhat  the  rich  Oriental  coloring  of  the  Arabian 
Nights. 

Edward  Barry:   south  sea  pearler.    By  louis 

Becke. 
Author  of  "  By  Reef  and  Palm,"  "  Ridart,  the  Devil,"  etc. 
With  four  full-page  illustrations  by  H.  C.  Edwards. 
Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  gilt  top,  300  pages      .         ^1.50 
An  exceedingly  interesting  story  of  sea  life  and  adventure,  the 
scene  of  which  is  laid  in  the  Lagoon  Islands  of  the  Pacific. 

This  is  the  first  complete  novel  from  the  pen  of  Mr.  Becke,  and 
readers  of  his  collections  of  short  stories  will  quickly  recognize  that 
the  author  can  write  a  novel  that  will  grip  the  reader.  Strong,  and 
even  tragic,  as  is  his  novel  in  the  main,  "  Edward  Barry  "  has  a 
happy  ending,  and  woman's  love  and  devotion  are  strongly  por- 
trayed. 

Unto  the  Heights  of  Simplicity.    By  jo 

HANNES    ReIMERS. 

Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  300  pages  .         .         .         j^i.25 

We  take  pleasure  in  introducing  to  the  reading  public  a  writer  of 
unique  charm  and  individuality.  His  style  is  notable  for  its  quaint 
poetic  idiom  and  subtle  imaginative  flavor.  In  the  present  story,  he 
treats  with  strength  and  reticence  of  the  relation  of  the  sexes  and 
the  problem  of  marriage.  Certain  social  abuses  and  false  standards 
of  morality  are  attacked  with  great  vigor,  yet  the  plot  is  so  interest- 
ing for  its  own  sake  that  the  book  gives  no  suspicion  of  being  a 
problem  novel.  The  descriptions  of  natural  scenery  are  idyllic  in 
their  charm,  and  form  a  fitting  background  for  the  Icve  story. 


LIST    OF    NEW    FICTION 


The  Black  Terror,    a  romance  of  Russia.    By  John 
K.  Leys. 
With  frontispiece  by  Victor  A.  Searles. 
Library  1 2mo,  cloth  decorative,  350  pages  .         .         .         $i-SO 

A  stirring  tale  of  the  present  day,  presenting  in  a  new  light  the 
aims  and  objects  of  the  Nihilists.  The  story  is  so  vivid  and  true  to 
life  that  it  might  easily  be  considered  a  history  of  political  intrigue 
in  Russia,  disguised  as  a  novel,  while  its  startling  incidents  and 
strange  denouement  would  only  confirm  the  old  adage  that  "  truth 
is  stranger  than  fiction,"  and  that  great  historical  events  may  be 
traced  to  apparently  insignificant  causes.  The  hero  of  the  story 
is  a  young  Englishman,  whose  startling  resemblance  to  the  Czar  is 
taken  advantage  of  by  the  Nihilists  for  the  furtherance  of  their 
plans. 

The  Baron's  Sons.  By  maurus  jokai. 

Author  of  "  Black  Diamonds,"  "  The   Green    Book,"  "  Pretty 
Michal,"  etc.     Translated  by  Percy  F.  Bicknell. 

Library    i2mo,   cloth   decorative,  with  photogravure 
portrait  of  the  author,  350  pages  .         .         .         .         ^1.50 

An  exceedingly  interesting  romance  of  the  revolution  of  1848, 
the  scene  of  which  is  laid  at  the  courts  of  St.  Petersburg,  Moscow, 
and  Vienna,  and  in  the  armies  of  the  Austrians  and  Hungarians. 
It  follows  the  fortunes  of  three  young  Hungarian  noblemen,  whose 
careers  are  involved  in  the  historical  in«idents  of  the  time.  The 
story  is  told  with  all  of  Jokai's  dash  and  vigor,  and  is  exceedingly 
interesting.  This  romance  has  been  translated  for  us  directly  from 
the  Hungarian,  and  never  has  been  issued  hitherto  in  English. 


Slaves  of  Chance.    By  ferrier  langv^orthy. 

With  five  portraits  of  the  heroines,  from  original  drawings  by 

Hiel. 
Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  gilt  top,  350  pages      .        ^1.50 

As  a  study  of  some  of  the  realities  of  London  life,  this  novel  is 
one  of  notable  merit.  The  slaves  of  chance,  and,  it  might  be  added, 
of  temptation,  are  five  pretty  girls,  the  daughters  of  a  pretty  widow, 
whose  means  are  scarcely  sufficient,  even  living  as  they  do,  in  a 
quiet  way  and  in  a  quiet  London  street,  to  make  both  ends  meet. 
Dealing,  as  he  does,  with  many  sides  of  London  life,  the  writer 
sketches  varied  types  of  character,  and  his  creations  are  cleverly 
defined.  He  tells  an  interesting  tale  with  deUcacy  and  in  a  fresh, 
attractive  style. 


L.    C.    PAGE    AND    COMPANY  S 


Her  Boston  Experiences.  By  Margaret  allston 

(nom  de  plume). 
With  eighteen  full-page  illustrations  from  drawings  by  Frank 

O.  Small,  and  from  photographs  taken  especially  for  the 

book. 
Small  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  gilt  top,  225  pages         .        ^1.25 

A  most  interesting  and  vivacious  tale,  dealing  with  society  life 
at  the  Hub,  with  perhaps  a  tinge  of  the  flavor  of  Vagabondia.  The 
story  has  appeared  serially  in  The  Ladies'  Home  Journal,  where  it 
was  received  with  marked  success.  We  are  not  as  yet  at  liberty  to 
give  the  true  name  of  the  author,  who  hides  her  identity  under  the 
pen  name,  Margaret  Allston,  but  she  is  well  known  in  literature. 

Memory  Street.    By  martha  baker  dunn. 

Author  of  "  The  Sleeping  Beauty,"  etc. 

Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  300  pages   .         .         .        ^1.25 

An  exceedingly  beautiful  story,  delineating  New  England  life  and 
character.  The  style  and  interest  will  compare  favorably  with  the 
work  of  such  writers  as  Mary  E.  Wilkins,  Kate  Douglas  Wiggin, 
and  Sarah  Orne  Jewett.  The  author  has  been  a  constant  con- 
tributor to  the  leading  magazines,  and  the  interest  of  her  previous 
work  will  assure  welcome  for  her  first  novel. 

Winifred,      a    story   of   the    chalk    cliffs.    By    s. 
Baring  Gould. 
Author  of  "  Mehala,"  etc. 
Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  illustrated,  350  pages  .         $1.50 

A  striking  novel  of  English  life  in  the  eighteenth  century  by  this 
well  known  writer.  The  scene  is  laid  partly  in  rural  Devonshire, 
and  partly  in  aristocratic  London  circles. 

At  tlie  Court  of  tlie  King:  being  romances  of 

France.    By  G.  Hembert  Westley,  editor  of  "  For  Love's 

Sweet  Sake." 
With  a  photogravure  frontispiece  from  an  original  drawing. 
Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  300  pages  .         .         .        ^^1.25 

Despite  the  prophecies  of  some  literary  experts,  the  historical 
romance  is  still  on  the  high  tide  of  popular  favor,  as  exemplified  by 
many  recent  successes.  We  feel  justified,  consequently,  in  issuing 
these  stirring  romances  of  intrigue  and  adventure,  love  and  war,  at 
the  Courts  of  the  French  Kings. 


LIST   OF   NEW   FICTION 


Qod'S  Rebel.      By  Hulbert  Fuller. 
Author  of  "  Vivian  of  Virginia." 
Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  375  pages   .         .         .         1^1.25 

A  powerful  story  of  sociological  questions.  The  scene  is  laid  in 
Chicago,  the  hero  being  a  professor  in  "  Rockland  University," 
whose  protest  against  the  unequal  distribution  of  wealth  and  the 
wretched  condition  of  workmen  gains  for  him  the  enmity  of  the 
*'  Savior  Oil  Company,"  through  whose  influence  he  loses  his  posi- 
tion. His  after  career  as  a  leader  of  laborers  who  are  fighting 
to  obtain  their  rights  is  described  with  great  earnestness.  The 
character  drawing  is  vigorous  and  varied,  and  the  romantic  plot 
holds  the  interest  throughout.  The  Albany  Journal  is  right  in 
pronouncing  this  novel  "  an  unusually  strong  story."  It  can  hardly 
fail  to  command  an  immense  reading  public. 

A  Georgian  Actress.  By  Pauline  Bradford  Mackie. 
Author  of  "  Mademoiselle    de    Bemy,"   "  Ye    Lyttle    Salem 

Maide,"  etc. 
With  four  full-page  illustrations  from  drawings  by  E.  W.  D. 

Hamilton. 
Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  gilt  top,  300  pages     .        t^-^o 

An  interesting  romance  of  the  days  of  George  III.,  deaUng  with 
the  life  and  adventures  of  a  fair  and  talented  young  play-actress, 
the  scene  of  which  is  laid  in  England  and  America.  The  success  of 
Miss  Mackie's  previous  books  will  justify  our  prediction  that  a  new 
volume  will  receive  an  instant  welcome. 


Qod  — The  King — fly  Brother,    a  romance. 

By  Mary  F.  Nixon. 
Author  of  "  With  a  Pessimist  in  Spain,"  "  A  Harp  of  Many 

Chords,"  etc. 
With  a  frontispiece  by  H.  C.  Edwards. 
Library  12  mo,  cloth  decorative,  300  pages  .         .         .         $1.25 

An  historical  tale,  dealing  with  the  romantic  period  of  Edward 
the  Black  Prince.  The  scene  is  laid  for  the  most  part  in  the 
sunny  land  of  Spain,  during  the  reign  of  Pedro  the  Cruel  — 
the  ally  in  war  of  the  Black  Prince.  The  well-told  story  records 
the  adventures  of  two  young  English  knight-errants,  twin  brothers, 
whose  family  motto  gives  the  title  to  the  book.  The  Spanish  maid, 
the  heroine  of  the  romance,  is  a  delightful  characterization,  and  the 
love  story,  with  its  surprising  yet  logical  denouement,  is  enthralling. 


6  L.   C.    PAGE    AND   COMPANY'S 

Punchinello.       By  Florence  Stuart. 

Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  gilt  top,  325  pages      .         1 1.50 

A  love  story  of  intense  power  and  pathos.  The  hero  is  a  hunch- 
-back  (Punchinello),  who  wins  the  love  of  a  beautiful  young  girl. 
Her  sudden  death,  due  indirectly  to  his  jealousy,  and  the  discovery 
that  she  had  never  faltered  in  her  love  for  him,  combine  to  unbalance 
his  mind.  The  poetic  style  relieves  the  sadness  of  the  story,  and 
the  reader  is  impressed  with  the  power  and  brilliancy  of  its  concep- 
tion, as  well  as  with  the  beauty  and  grace  of  the  execution. 

The    Golden    Fleece,      Translated  from  the  French  of 
Amedee  Achard,  author   of  "The   Huguenot's  Love,"  etc. 
Illustrated  by  Victor  A.  Searles. 
Library  1 2mo,  cloth  decorative,  illustrated,  450  pages  .         I1.50 

Amedee  Achard  was  a  contemporary  writer  of  Dumas,  and  his 
romances  are  very  similar  to  those  of  that  great  writer.  "The 
Golden  Fleece  "  compares  favorably  with  "  The  Three  Musketeers  " 
and  the  other  D'Artagnan  romances.  The  story  relates  the  adven- 
tures of  a  young  Gascon  gentleman,  an  officer  in  the  army  sent  by 
Louis  XIV.  to  assist  the  Austrians  in  repelling  the  Turkish  Invasion 
under  the  celebrated  Achmet  Kiuperli. 

The  Qood  Ship  York.    By  w.  clark  russell. 

Author  of  "  The  Wreck  of  the  Grosvenor,"  "  A  Sailor's  Sweet- 
heart," etc. 
Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  illustrated,  350  pages  $1  50 

A  romantic  and  exciting  sea  tale,  equal  to  the  best  work  of  this 
famous  writer,  relating  the  momentous  voyage  of  the  clipper  ship 
York,  and  the  adventures  that  befell  Julia  Armstrong,  a  passenger, 
and  George  Hardy,  the  chief  mate. 

"  Mr.  Russell  has  no  rival  in  the  line  of  marine  fiction."  —  Mail  and  Express. 

Tom  Ossington's  Qhost.    By  richard  marsh. 

Author  of  "  Frivolities,"  "  Ada  Vernham,  Actress,"  etc.     Illus- 
trated by  Harold  Pifford. 
Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  gilt  top,  325  pages      .         $1.50 

"  I  read  '  Tom  Ossington's  Ghost '  the  other  night,  and  was  afraid  to  go  up-stairs 
in  the  dark  after  it."  —  Truth. 

"An  entrancing  book,  but  people  with  weak  nerves  had  better  not  read  it  at 
night."  —  To-day. 

"  Mr.  Marsh  has  been  inspired  by  an  entirely  original  idea,  and  has  worked  it  out 
with  great  ingenuity.  We  like  the  weird  but  not  repulsive  story  better  than  anything 
ke  has  ever  done."  —  World. 


LIST    OF   NEW   FICTION 


The  Glory  and  Sorrow  of  Norwich.     By 

M.  M.  Blake. 
Author  of   "  The   Blues   and   the   Brigands,"   etc.,   etc.,   with 

twelve  full-page  illustrations. 
Library  lamo,  cloth  decorative,  gilt  top,  315  pages      .         $1.50 

The  hero  of  this  romance,  Sir  John  de  Reppes,  is  an  actual 
personage,  and  throughout  the  characters  and  incidents  are  instinct 
with  the  spirit  of  the  age,  as  related  in  the  chronicles  of  Froissart. 
Its  main  claim  for  attention,  however,  is  in  the  graphic  representa- 
tion of  the  age  of  chivalry  which  it  gives,  forming  a  series  of  brilliant 
and  fascinating  pictures  of  mediaeval  England,  its  habits  of  thought 
and  manner  of  life,  which  live  in  the  mind  for  many  a  day  after 
perusal,  and  assist  to  a  clearer  conception  of  what  is  one  of  the  most 
charming  and  picturesque  epochs  of  history. 

The  riistress  of  JTlaidenwood.    By  hulbert 

Fuller. 
Author  of  "  Vivian  of  Virginia,"  "  God's  Rebel,"  etc. 
Library  1 2mo,  cloth  decorative,  350  pages  .        .        .        I1.50 
A  stirring  historical  romance  of  the  American  Revolution,  the 
scene  of  which  for  the  most  part  being  laid  in  and  about  the  debatable 
ground  in  the  vicinity  of  New  York  City. 

Dauntless,     a  tale  of  a  lost  cause.  By  Captain  Ewan 

Martin. 
Author  of  "  The  Knight  of  King's  Guard." 
Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  400  pages,  illustrated .        ^1.50 

A  stirring  romance  of  the  days  of  Charles  I.  and  Cromwell  in 
England  and  Ireland.  In  its  general  character  the  book  invites 
comparison  with  Scott's  "  Waverley."  It  well  sustains  the  reputa- 
tion gained  by  Captain  Martin  from  "  The  Knight  of  King's  Guard." 

The    Flame    of    Life.       (Il  Fuoco.)     Translated  from 

the  Italian  of  Gabriel  D'Annunzio,  author  of  "  Triumph  of 

Death,"  etc.,   by  Kassandra    Vivaria,  author  of    "Via 

Lucis." 

Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  350  pages  .        .        .        I1.50 

This  is  the  first  volume  in  the  Third  Trilogy,  "The  Romances 
of  the  Pomegranate,"  of  the  three  announced  by  the  great  Italian 
writer.  We  were  fortunate  in  securing  the  book,  and  also  in  securing 
the  services  as  translator  of  the  talented  author  of  "Via  Lucis," 
herself  an  Italian  by  birth. 


Selections  from 

L*  C.  Page  and  Company's 

List  of  Fiction* 

An  Enemy  to  the  King,  {Thirtieth  Thousand.) 
From    the    Recently    Discovered    Memoirs    of    the 

SlEUR    DE    LA    TOURNOIRE.        By    ROBERT     NeILSON     STE- 
PHENS. 

Illustrated  by  H.  De  M.  Young. 

Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  gilt  top,  460  pages      .         $1.50 

"  Brilliant  as  a  play  ;  it  is  equally  brilliant  as  a  romantic  novel."  —  Philadelphia 
Press. 

"  Those  who  love  chivalry,  fighting,  and  intrigue  will  find  it,  and  of  good  quality, 
in  this  book."  —  New  York  Critic. 

The  Continental  Dragoon.  (Eighteenth  Thousand.) 

A  Romance  of   Philipse  Manor   House,  in  1778.     By 

Robert  Neilson  Stephens. 

Author  of  "  An  Enemy  to  the  King.** 

Illustrated  by  H.  C.  Edwards. 

Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  300  pages  .         .         .         $1.50 

"  It  has  the  sterling  qualities  of  strong  dramatic  writing,  and  ranks  among  the 
most  spirited  and  ably  written  historical  romances  of  the  season.  An  impulsive  ap- 
preciation of  a  soldier  who  is  a  soldier,  a  man  who  is  a  man,  a  hero  who  is  a  hero,  is 
one  of  the  most  captivating  of  Mr.  Stephens's  charms  of  manner  and  style."  — 
Boston  Herald. 

The  Road  to  Paris.  {Sixteenth  Thousand.)  By  Robert 
Neilson  Stephens. 

Author  of  "  An  Enemy  to  the  King,"  "  The  Continental  Dra- 
goon," etc. 

Illustrated  by  H.  C.  Edwards. 

Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  500  pages  .         .         .         $1.50 

"  Vivid  and  picturesque  in  style,  well  conceived  and  full  of  action,  the  novel  is 
absorbing  from  cover  to  cover."  —  Philadelphia  Public  Ledger. 

"  In  the  line  of  historical  romance,  few  books  of  the  season  will  equal  Robert 
Neilson  Stephens's  '  The  Road  to  Paris.'  "  —  Cincinnati  Times-Star. 


L.   C.   PAGE   AND    COMPANY'S 


A  Qentleman  Player.   {Thirty-fifth  Thousand.)  ms 

Adventures  on  a  Secret  Mission  for  Queen  Eliza- 
beth.    By  Robert  Neilson  Stephens. 

Author  of  "  An  Enemy  to  the  King,"  "  The  Continental  Dra- 
goon," "  The  Road  to  Paris,"  etc. 

Illustrated  by  Frank  T.  Merrill. 

Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  450  pages  .         .         .         fi.50 

"  A  thrilling  historical  romance.  ;  .  :  It  is  a  well-told  tale  of  mingled  romance 
and  history,  and  the  reader  throughout  unconsciously  joins  in  the  flight  and  thrills 
with  the  excitement  of  the  dangers  and  adventures  that  befall  the  fugitives."  — 
Chicago  Tribune. 

" '  A  Gentleman  Player '  is  well  conceived  and  well  told."  —  Boston  Journal. 


Rose    ^    Charlitte.      {Eighth  Thousand:)     An  Acadien 

Romance.    By  Marshall  SaunderSo 

Author  of  "  Beautiful  Joe,"  etc. 

Illustrated  by  H.  De  M.  Young. 

Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  500  pages  .         .         .        f  i-50 

"A  very  fine  novel  we  unhesitatingly  pronounce  it  ;  .  .  one  of  the  books  that 
stamp  themselves  at  once  upon  the  imagination  and  remain  imbedded  in  the  memory 
long  after  the  covers  are  closed."  —  Literary  World,  Boston. 


Deficient  Saints,    a  tale  of  Maine.    By  Marshall 

Saunders. 

Author  of  "  Rose  a  Charlitte,"  "  Beautiful  Joe,"  etc. 

Illustrated  by  Frank  T.  Merrill. 

Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  400  pages  .         .         .        f  1.50 

"  The  tale  is  altogether  delightful ;  it  is  vitally  charming  and  expresses  a  quiet 
power  that  sparkles  with  all  sorts  of  versatile  beauty."  —  Boston  Ideas. 


Her  Sailor,     a  novel.    By  Marshall  Saunders. 
Author  of  "  Rose  a  Charlitte,"  "  Beautiful  Joe,"  etc. 
Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  illustrated,  325  pages         $1-25 

A  story  of  modern  life  of  great  charm  and  pathos,  dealing  with 
the  love  affairs  of  an  American  girl  and  a  naval  officer. 

"A  love  story,  refreshing  and  sweet." —  Utica  Herald. 

"  The  wayward  petulance  of  the  maiden,  who  half-resents  the  matter-of-course 
wooing  and  wedding,  her  graceful  coquetry,  and  final  capitulation  are  prettily  told, 
making  a  fine  character  sketch  and  an  entertaining  story."  —  Bookseller,  Chicago. 


LIST    OF   FICTION 


Pretty  M.icha.1.    a  romance  of  Hungary.   By  Maurus 

JOKAI. 

Author  of  «  Black  Diamonds,"  "  The  Green  Book,"  "  Midst  the 
Wild  Carpathians,"  etc. 

Authorized  translation  by  R.  Nisbet  Bain. 

Illustrated  with  a  photogravure  frontispiece  of  the  great  Mag- 
yar writer. 

Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  325  pages  .         .         .        )?i.50 

"  It  is  at  once  a  spirited  tale  of  *  border  chivalry,'  a  charming  love  story  full  of 
!  poetry,  and  a  graphic  picture  of  life  in  a  country  and  at  a  period  both  equally 
English  readers."  —  Literary  World,  London. 


genuine 
new  to  " 


Midst  the  Wild  Carpathians.    By  maurus 

JOKAI. 

Author  of  "  Black  Diamonds,"  "  The  Lion  of  Janina,"  etc. 

Authorized  translation  by  R.  Nisbet  Bain. 

Illustrated  by  J.  W.  Kennedy. 

Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  300  pages  .         .         .         j?i.25 

"  The  story  is  absorbingly  interesting  and  displays  all  the  virility  of  Jokai's 
powers,  his  genius  of  description,  his  keenness  of  characterization,  his  subUety  of 
humor,  and  his  consummate  art  in  the  progression  of  the  novel  from  one  apparent 
climax  to  another."  —  Chicago  Evening  Post. 

In  Kings'  Houses,    a  romance  of  the  reign  of 

Queen  Anne.    By  Julia  C.  R.  Dorr. 
Author  of  *'  A  Cathedral  Pilgrimage,"  etc. 
Illustrated  by  Frank  T.  Merrill. 
Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  400  pages  .         .         .         $1.50 

"  We  close  the  book  with  a  wish  that  the  author  may  write  more  romances  of  the 
history  of  England  which  she  knows  so  well."  —  Bookman,  New  York. 

"A  fine  strong  story  which  is  a  relief  to  come  upon.  Related  with  charming, 
simple  art."  —  Philadelphia  Public  Ledger. 

Omar  the  Tentmal^er.    a  romance  of  old 

Persia.    By  Nathan  Haskell  Dole. 
Illustrated  by  F.  T.  Merrill. 
Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  350  pages  .         .         .        %^-S'^ 

"The  story  itself  is  beautiful  and  it  is  beautifully  written.  It  possesses  the  true 
spirit  of  romance,  and  is  almost  poetical  in  form.  The  author  has  undoubtedly  been 
inspired  by  his  admiration  for  the  Rubaiyat  of  Omar  Khayyam  to  wTite  this  story  of 
which  Omar  is  the  hero." —  Troy  Times. 

"  Mr.  Dole  has  built  a  delightful  romance." —  Chicago  Chronicle. 

"  It  is  a  strong  and  vividly  written  story,  full  of  the  life  and  spirit  of  romance."  — 
New  Orleans  Picayune. 


L.   C.    PAGE   AND    COMPANY  S 


ManderS.       a  tale  of  Paris.     By  Elwyn  Barron. 

Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  illustrated,  350  pages  $1.50 

"  Bright  descriptions  of  student  life  in  Paris,  sympathetic  views  of  human  frailty, 
and  a  dash  of  dramatic  force,  combine  to  form  an  attractive  story.  The  book  contains 
some  very  strong  scenes,  plenty  of  life  and  color,  and  a  pleasant  tinge  of  humor. 
...  It  has  grip,  picturesqueness,  and  vivacity." —  The  Speaker,  London. 

"A  study  of  deep  human  interest,  in  which  pathos  and  humor  both  play  their 
parts.  The  descriptions  of  life  in  the  Quartier  Latin  are  distinguished  for  their 
freshness  and  liveliness."  —  St.Jatnes  Gazette,  London. 

"  A  romance  sweet  as  violets."  —  Town  Topics,  New  York. 


In    Old    New   York,     a  romance.     By  Wilson  Bar- 
rett, author  of  "  The  Sign  of  the  Cross,"  etc.,  and  Elwyn 
Barron,  author  of  "  Manders." 
Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  illustrated,  350  pages        ^1.50 

"  A  novel  of  great  interest  and  vigor."  —  Philadelphia  Inquirer. 

"  *  In  Old  New  York  '  is  worthy  of  its  distinguished  authors."  —  Chicago  Times- 
Herald. 

"  Intensely  interesting.  It  has  an  historical  flavor  that  gives  it  a  substantial  value." 
—  Boston  Globe. 

The    Qolden    Dog.      a    romance    of    Quebec.     By 

William  Kirby. 

New  authorized  edition. 

Illustrated  by  J.  W.  Kennedy. 

Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  620  pages  .         .         ,        $1.25 

"  A  powerful  romance  of  love,  intrigue,  and  adventure  in  the  time  of  Louis  XV, 
and  Mme.  de  Pompadour,  when  the  French  colonies  were  making  their  great 
struggle  to  retain  for  an  ungrateful  court  the  fairest  jewels  in  the  colonial  diadem  of 
France."  —  New  York  Herald. 

The  Knight  of  King's  Guard,  a  romance  of 

the  Days  of  the  Black  Prince.     By  Ewan  Martin. 
Illustrated  by  Gilbert  James. 
Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  300  pages  .         .         .         $^-^o 

An  exceedingly  well  written  romance,  dealing  with  the  romantic 
period  chronicled  so  admirably  by  Froissart.  The  scene  is  laid  at  a 
border  castle  between  England  and  Scotland,  the  city  of  London, 
and  on  the  French  battle-fields  of  Cressy  and  Poitiers.  Edward  the 
Third,  Queen  Philippa,  the  Black  Prince,  Bertrand  du  Guesclin,  are 
all  historical  characters,  accurate  reproductions  of  which  give  life 
and  vitality  to  the  romance.  The  character  of  the  hero  is  especially 
well  drawn. 


LIST   OF   FICTION 


The  Making  of  a  Saint.    By  w.  somerset 

Maugham. 
Illustrated  by  Gilbert  James. 
Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  350  pages  .         .         .         j^i.50 

"  An  exceedingly  strong  story  of  original  motive  and  design.  ,  .  .  The  scenes  are 
imbued  with  a  spirit  of  frankness  .  .  .  and  in  addition  there  is  a  strong  dramatic 
fiaMox:'  —  Philadelphia  Press. 

"  A  sprightly  tale  abounding  in  adventures,  and  redolent  of  the  spirit  of  mediaeval 
Italy."  — Brooklyn  Times. 


Friendship  and   Folly,     a  novel.    By  maria 

Louise  Pool. 
Author  of  «  Dally,"  "  A  Redbridge  Neighborhood,"  "  In  a  Dike 

Shanty,"  etc. 
Illustrated  by  J.  W.  Kennedy. 
Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  300  pages  .        .        .        jS5i.25 

"The  author  handles  her  elements  with  skilful  fingers  —  fingers  that  feel  their 
way  most  truthfully  among  the  actual  emotions  and  occurrences  of  nineteenth 
century  romance.  Hers  is  a  frank,  sensitive  touch,  and  the  result  is  both  complete 
and  full  of  interest."  —  Boston  Ideas. 

"  The  story  will  rank  with  the  best  previous  work  of  this  author."  —  Indianapolis 
News. 


The  Rejuvenation  of  Miss  Semaphore. 

A  Farcical  Novel.     By  Hal  Godfrey. 

Illustrated  by  Etheldred  B.  Barry. 

Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  300  pages  .         .        .         $1.25 

"  A  fanciful,  laughable  tale  of  two  maiden  sisters  of  uncertain  age  who  are  induced, 
by  their  natural  longing  for  a  return  to  youth  and  its  blessings,  to  pay  a  large  sum 
for  a  mystical  water  which  possesses  the  value  of  setting  backwards  the  hands  of 
time.  No  more  delightfully  fresh  and  original  book  has  appeared  since  '  Vice 
Versa'  charmed  an  amused  world.  It  is  well  written,  drawn  to  the  life,  and  full  of 
the  most  enjoyable  humor."  —  Boston  Beacon. 


The  Paths  of  the  Prudent.     By  J.  S.  Fletcher. 
Author  of  "  When  Charles  I.  Was  King,"  "  Mistress  Spitfire,"  etc. 
Illustrated  by  J.  W.  Kennedy. 
Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  300  pages  .         .         .         ^1.50 

"  The  story  has  a  curious  fascination  for  the  reader,  and  the  theme  and  characters 
are  handled  with  rare  ability."  —  Scotsman. 

"  Dorinthia  is  charming.  The  story  is  told  with  great  humor."  —  Pall  Mall 
Gazette. 

"  An  excellently  well  told  story,  and  the  reader's  interest  is  perfectly  sustained  to 
the  very  end."  —  Punch. 


L.   C.    f  AGE   AND   company's 


Cross  Trails.     By  victor  Waite. 
Illustrated  by  J.  W.  Kennedy. 
Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  450  pages  .         .         .         |i-SO 

"A  Spanish- American  novel  of  unusual  interest,  a  brilliant,  dashing,  and  stirring 
story,  teeming  with  humanity  and  life.  Mr.  Waite  is  to  be  congratulated  upon  the 
strength  with  which  he  has  drawn  his  characters."  —  San  Francisco  Chronicle. 

"  Every  page  is  enthralling."  —  Academy. 

"  Full  of  strength  and  reality."  —  Athemetim. 

"  The  book  is  exceedingly  powerful."  —  Glasgow  Herald. 


Bijl 


the  Dancer.   By  james  blythe  patton. 

Illustrated  by  Horace  Van  Rinth. 

Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  350  pages  .         .         .         I1.50 

"  A  novel  of  Modem  India.  .  .  .  The  fortunes  of  the  heroine,  an  Indian  nautch- 
jirl,  are  told  with  a  vigor,  pathos,  and  a  wealth  of  poetic  sympathy  that  makes  the 
)Ook  admirable  from  first  to  last."  —  Detroit  Free  Press. 

"A  remarkable  book."  —  Bookman. 

"  Powerful  and  fascinating."  —  Pall  Mall  Gazette. 

"A  vivid  picture  of  Indian  life."  —  Academy,  London. 


Drives  and  Puts,    a  book  of  golf  stories.    By 

Walter  Camp  and  Lilian  Brooks. 
Small  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  illustrated,  250  pages    .         |i-25 

"It  will  be  heartily  relished  by  all  readers,  whether  golfers  or  not."  —  Boston 
Ideas. 

"  Decidedly  the  best  golf  stories  I  have  read."  —  Milwaukee  Journal. 

"  Thoroughly  entertaining  and  interesting  in  every  page,  and  is  gotten  out  with 
care  and  judgment  that  indicate  rare  taste  in  bookmaking."  —  Chicago  Saturday 
Evening  Herald. 


Via    Lucis.      By  Kassandra  Vivaria. 
With  portrait  of  the  author. 
Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  480  pages  .         .         .         j?i.50 

"'Via  Lucis 'is  —  we  say  it  unhesitatingly  —  a  striking  and  interesting  produc- 
tion."—  London  AthencBum,. 

"Without  doubt  the  most  notable  novel  of  the  summer  is  this  strong  story  of 
Italian  life,  so  full  of  local  color  one  can  almost  see  the  cool,  shaded  patios  and  the 
flame  of  the  pomegranate  blossom,  and  smell  the  perfume  of  the  grapes  growing  on 
the  hillsides.  It  is  a  story  of  deep  and  passionate  heart  interests,  of  fierce  loves  and 
fiercer  hates,  of  undisciplined  natures  that  work  out  their  own  bitter  destiny  of  woe. 
There  has  hardly  been  a  finer  piece  of  portraiture  than  that  of  the  child  Arduina,  — 
the  child  of  a  sickly  and  unloved  mother  and  a  cruel  and  vindictive  father,  —  a  mor- 
bid, q^ueer,  lonely  little  creature,  who  is  left  to  grow  up  without  love  or  training  of 
any  kmd."  —  New  Orleans  Picayune. 


LIST   OF   FICTION 


*'  To  Arms  I  "  being  some  passages  from  the  Early 
Life  of  Allan  Oliphant,  Chirurgeon,  Written  by 
Himself,  and  now  set  forth  for  the  First  Time. 
By  Andrew  Balfour. 

Illustrated  by  F.  W.  Glover. 

Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  575  pages  .         .         .        $^'5^ 

"  A  tale  of  '  Bonnie  Tweedside,'  and  St.  Dynans  and  Auld  Reekie,  —  a  fair  picture 
of  theicountry  under  misrule  and  usurpation  and  all  kinds  of  vicissitudes.  Allan  Oli- 
phant is  a  great  hero."  —  Chicago  Times-Herald. 

"  A  recital  of  thrilling  interest,  told  with  unflagging  vigor."  —  Globe. 

"An  unusually  excellent  example  of  a  semi-historic  romance." —  World. 

The  River  of  Pearls;  or,  the  red  spider,    a 

Chinese  Romance.     By  Ren6  de  Pont-Jest. 
With  sixty  illustrations  from  original  drawings  by  Felix  Re- 

gamey. 
Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  300  pages  .         .         .         $1-50 

Close  acquaintance  with  the  manners  and  customs  of  the  Chinese 
has  enabled  the  author  to  write  a  story  which  is  instructive  as  well 
as  interesting.  The  book,  as  a  whole,  shows  the  writer  to  be  pos- 
sessed of  a  strong  descriptive  faculty,  as  well  as  keen  insight  into 
the  characters  of  the  people  of  whom  he  is  writing.  The  plot  is 
cleverly  conceived  and  well  worked  out,  and  the  story  abounds  with 
incidents  of  the  most  exciting  and  sensational  character.  Enjoy- 
ment of  its  perusal  is  increased  by  the  powerful  illustrations  of  Felix 
Regamey. 

The  book  may  be  read  with  profit  by  any  one  who  wishes  to 
realize  the  actual  condition  of  native  life  in  China. 

Lally  of  the  Brigade,    a  romance  of  the  irish 

Brigade  in   France  during  the  Time  of  Louis  the 

Fourteenth.    By  L.  McManus. 
Author   of    "The   Silk   of  the  Kine,"  "The  Red  Star,"  etc. 
Illustrated. 
Library  1 2mo,  cloth  decorative,  250  pages  .         .         .         j55i.25 

The  scene  of  this  romance  is  partly  at  the  siege  of  Crimona  (held 
by  the  troops  of  Louis  XIV.)  by  the  Austrian  forces  under  Prince 
Eugene.  During  the  siege  the  famous  Irish  Brigade  renders  valiant 
service,  and  the  hero  —  a  dashing  young  Irishman  — is  in  the  thick 
of  the  fighting.  He  is  also  able  to  give  efiicient  service  in  unravel- 
ling a  political  intrigue,  in  which  the  love  affairs  of  the  hero  and  the 
heroine  are  interwoven. 


8  L.    C.    PAGE   AND   COMPANY'S 

Frivolities,     especially  addressed  to  those  who  are 
Tired  of  being  Serious.     By  Richard  Marsh. 
Author  of  "  Tom  Ossington's  Ghost,"  etc. 
Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  340  p^ges  .         .         .         J5i.50 

A  dozen  stories  in  an  entirely  new  vein  for  Mr.  Marsh.  The 
humor  is  irresistible,  and  carries  the  reader  on  breathlessly  from  one 
laugh  to  another.  The  style,  though  appealing  to  a  totally  different 
side  of  complex  human  nature,  is  as  strong  and  effective  as  the 
author's  intense  and  dramatic  work  in  "  Tom  Ossington's  Ghost." 


Sons   of  Adversity.      a  romance  of  queen  Eliza- 
beth's Time.     By  L.  Cope  Cornford. 
Author  of  "  Captain  Jacobus,"  etc. 
Illustrated  by  J.  W.  Kennedy. 
Library  1 2mo,  cloth  decorative,  325  pages   .         .         .         $1-25 

"  A  tale  of  adventure  on  land  and  sea  at  the  time  when  Protestant  England  and 
Catholic  Spain  were  struggling  for  naval  supremacy.  Spanish  conspiracies  against 
the  peace  of  good  Queen  Bess,  a  vivid  description  of  the  raise  of  the  Spanish  siege  of 
Leyden  by  the  combined  Dutch  and  English  forces,  sea  fights,  the  recovery  of  stolen 
treasure,  are  all  skilfully  woven  elements  in  a  plot  of  unusual  strength."  —  Pittsburg 
Bulletin. 


The  Count  of  Nideck.  from  the  French  of 
Erckmann-Chatrian,  Translated  and  Adapted  by 
Ralph  Browning  Fiske. 

Illustrated  by  Victor  A.  Searles. 

Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  375  pages  .         .         .         ^1.25 

'"The  Count  of  Nideck,'  adapted  from  the  French  of  Erckmann-Chatrian  by 
Ralph  Browning  Fiske,  is  a  most  interesting  tale,  simply  told,  and  moving  with 
direct  force  to  the  end  in  view."  —  Minneapolis  Times. 

"  Rapid  in  movement,  it  abounds  in  dramatic  incident,  furnishes  graphic  descrip- 
tions of  the  locality,  and  is  enlivened  with  a  very  pretty  love  story." —  Trojf  Budget. 


MUf  iella  ;    or,  Le  Selve.     By  Ouida. 
Illustrated  by  M.  B.  Prendergast. 
Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  250  pages  .         .         .         $1.25 

"Ouida's  literary  style  is  almost  perfect  in  '  Muriella.' "  —  Chicago  Times- 
Herald. 

"'Muriella'  is  an  admirable  example  of  the  author's  best  ^oxV."  —  Brooklyn 
Times. 

"  It  dwells  in  the  memory,  and  bears  the  dramatic  force,  tragic  interest,  and 
skilfulness  of  treatment  that  mark  the  work  of  Ouida  when  at  her  best."  — Fittsburg 
Bulletin. 


LIST    OF    FICTION 


The  Archbishop's  Unguarded  Moment. 

By  Oscar  Fay  Adams. 
Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  illustrated,  300  pages         $1.25 

"A  very  captivating  volume."  —  Evening  Wisconsin. 
"  Brimming  over  with  humor."  —  Chicago  Chronicle. 

"  He  who  cares  to  pass  a  few  hours  in  quiet  enjoyment  and  subdued  laughter  will 
do  well  to  become  the  possessor  of  this  clever  volume."  —  American,  Philadelphia. 

The   Works  of  Gabriel  d^ Annunzio, 

The  Triumph  of  Death. 
The  Intruder. 
The  Maidens  of  the  Rocks. 
The  Child  of  Pleasure. 

Each,  I  vol.,  library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative         .        .        jPi.50 

"  The  writer  of  the  greatest  promise  to-day  in  Italy,  and  perhaps  one  of  the  most 
unique  figures  in  contemporary  literature,  is  Gabriel  d'Annunzio,  the  poet-novelist." 
—  The  Bookman. 

"  This  book  is  realistic.  Some  say  that  it  is  brutally  so.  But  the  realism  is  that 
of  Flaubert  and  not  of  Zola.  There  is  no  plain  speaking  for  the  sake  of  plain  speak- 
ing. Every  detail  is  justified  in  the  fact  that  it  illuminates  either  the  motives  or  the 
actions  of  the  man  and  woman  who  here  stand  revealed.  It  is  deadly  true.  The 
author  holds  the  mirror  up  to  nature,  and  the  reader,  as  he  sees  his  own  experiences 
duplicated  in  passage  after  passage,  has  something  of  the  same  sensation  as  all  of  us 
know  on  the  first  reading  of  George  Meredith's  Egoist.'  Reading  these  pages  is 
like  being  out  in  the  country  on  a  dark  night  in  a  storm.  Suddenly  a  flash  of  light- 
ning comes  and  every  detail  of  your  surroundings  is  revealed."  —  Review  of  the 
Triumph  of  Death,  in  the  New  York  Evening  Sun. 

Ye  Lyttle  Salem  Maide.  a  story  of  witch- 
craft.   By  Pauline  Bradford  Mackie. 

With  four  full-page  photogravures  from  drawings  by  E.  W.  D. 
Hamilton. 

Printed  on  deckle-edged  paper,  with  gilt  top,  and  bound  in 
cloth  decorative,  321  pages $i-50 

A  tale  of  the  days  of  the  reign  of  superstition  in  New  England, 
and  of  a  brave  "lyttle  maide"  of  Salem  Town,  whose  faith  and 
hope  and  unyielding  adherence  to  her  word  of  honor  form  the  basis 
of  a  most  attractive  story.  Several  historical  characters  are  intro- 
duced, including  the  Rev.  Cotton  Mather  and  Governor  and  Lady 
Phipps,  and  a  very  convincing  picture  is  drawn  of  Puritan  life  during 
the  latter  part  of  the  seventeenth  century.  An  especial  interest  is 
added  to  the  book  by  the  illustrations,  reproduced  by  the  photo- 
gravure process  from  originals  by  E.  W.  D.  Hamilton. 


lO  L.    C.    PAGE    AND    COMPANY  S 

Mademoiselle  de  Berny.    a  story  of  valley 

Forge.     By  Pauline  Bradford  Mackie. 
With  five  full-page  photogravures  from  drawings  by  Frank  T. 

Merrill. 
Printed  on  deckle-edged  paper,  with  gilt  top,  and  bound  in 

cloth  decorative,  272  pages jJi-S^ 

"  The  charm  of  '  Mademoiselle  de  Beray  '  lies  in  its  singular  sweetness."  —  Boston 
Herald. 

"  One  of  the  very  few  choice  American  historical  stories."  —  Boston  Transcript. 

"  Real  romance  .  .  .  admirably  written." — Washington  Post. 

"  A  stirring  romance,  full  of  life  and  action  from  start  to  finish."  —  Toledo  Daily 
Blade. 

"  Of  the  many  romances  in  which  Washington  is  made  to  figure,  this  is  one  of  the 
most  fascinating,  one  of  the  best."  —  Boston  Courier. 

Captain    FraCaSSe.      translated  from  the  French 
OF  Gautier.     By  Ellen  Murray  Beam. 
Illustrated  by  Victor  A.  Searles. 
Library  1 2mo,  cloth  decorative,  575  pages  .         .         .         $1.25 

"  The  story  is  one  of  the  best  in  romantic  fiction,  for  upon  it  Gautier  lavished  his 
rare  knowledge  of  the  twelfth  century.  —  San  Francisco  Chronicle. 

"  One  of  those  rare  stories  in  which  vitality  is  abundant.  —  New  York  Herald. 

In  Quiana  Wilds,     a  study  of  two  women.  By 

James  Rodway. 
Author  of  "  In  the  Guiana  Forest,"  etc. 
Library  i2mo,  cloth,  decorative,  illustrated,  250  pages         j!^i.25 

"In  Guiana  Wilds"  may  be  described  as  an  ethnological 
romance.  A  typical  young  Scotchman  becomes,  by  the  force  of 
circumstances,  deciviUzed,  and  mates  with  a  native  woman. 

It  is  a  psychological  study  of  great  power  and  ability. 

The  Qray  House  of  the  Quarries.  By  mary 

Harriott  Norris. 
With  a  frontispiece  etching  by  Edmund  H.  Garrett. 
8 vo,  cloth  decorative,  500  pages $i-50 

"The  peculiar  genre,  for  which,  in  a  literary  sense,  all  must  acknowledge  obliga- 
tion to  the  author  of  a  new  type,  is  the  Dutch-American  species.  The  church-goings, 
the  courtings,  the  pleasures  and  sorrows  of  a  primitive  people,  their  lives  and  deaths, 
weddings,  suicides,  births,  and  burials,  are  Rembrandt  and  Rubens  pictures  on  a 
fresh  canvas."  —  Boston  Transcript. 

"  The  fine  ideal  of  womanhood  in  a  person  never  once  physically  described  will 
gratify  the  highess  tone  of  the  period,  and  is  an  ennobling  conception."  —  Time  and 
th*  Hour,  Boston. 


LIST    OF    FICTION  II 

Vivian  of  Virginia,    being  the  memoirs  of  our 

First  Rebellion,  by  John  Vivian,  Esq.,  of   Middle 
Plantation,  Virginia.     By  Hulbert  Fuller. 

With  ten  full-page  illustrations  by  Frank  T.  Merrill. 

Libraiy  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  gilt  top,  deckle-edge 

paper,  375  pages $1.50 

"  A  stirring  and  accurate  account  of  the  famous  Bacon  rebellion."  —  Los  Angeles 
Sunday  Times. 

"  We  shall  have  to  search  far  to  find  a  better  colonial  story  than  this."  —  Denver 
Republican. 

"  A  well-conceived,  well-plotted  romance,  full  of  life  and  adventure."  —  Chicago 
Inter-Ocean. 

"  A  story  abounding  in  exciting  incidents  and  well-told  conversations."  —  Boston 
Journal. 

"  Mr.  Fuller  will  find  a  large  circle  of  readers  for  his  romance  who  will  not  be 
disappointed  in  their  pleasant  expectations."  —  Boston  Transcript. 

'  Instead  of  using  history  as  a  background  for  tlae  exploits  of  the  hero,  the  author 
hi; 


used  the  hero  to  bring  out  history  and  the  interesting  events  of  those  early  days  in 
Virginia.      1  he  author  has  preserve  '    '      ' 
rably . ' '  —  Philadelphia  Telegram. 


Virginia.      1  he  author  has  preserved  the  language  and  customs  of  the  times  admi- 
dIv."-."" ■■    ~  ■ 


A  nan=at«= Arms,  a  romance  of  italy  in  the  days 

OF   GiAN    Galeazzo   Visconti,  the   Great  Viper.    By 

Clinton  Scollard. 
Author  of  "  Skenandoa,"  etc. 
With   six  full-page  illustrations   and  title-page  by  E.  W.  D. 

Hamilton. 
Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  gilt  top,  deckle-edge 

paper,  360  pages ^1.50 

"  The  style  is  admirable,  simple,  direct,  fluent,  and  sometimes  eloquent ;  and  the 
story  moves  with  rapidity  from  start  to  finish." —  The  Bookman. 
"  A  good  story."  —  JV.  Y.  Commercial  Advertiser. 
"  It  is  a  triumph  in  style."  —  Utica  Herald. 


Bobbie   McDuff.     By  Clinton  Ross,  author  of  "The 
Scarlet  Coat,"  "Zuleika,"  etc. 
Illustrated  by  B.  West  CUnedinst. 
Large  i6mo,  cloth  decorative,  260  pages      .         .         .         $1.00 

"  '  Bobbie  McDuff,'  by  Clinton  Ross,  is  a  healthy  romance,  tersely  and  vigorously 
told. "  —  L  ouisville  Courier-Journal. 

"It  is  full  of  mystery  and  as  fascinating  as  a  fairy  tale."  —  San  Francisco 
Chronicle. 

"  It  is  a  well-written  story,  full  of  surprises  and  abo\jn4ing  in  vivid  interest."-- 
Th0  Congregatiottalist,  Boston. 


12  L.   C.    PAGE    AND   COMPANY'S 

A  Hypocritical  Romance  and  other  stories. 

By  Caroline  Ticknor. 
Illustrated  by  J.  W.  Kennedy. 

Large  i6mo,  cloth  decorative $i.oo 

Miss  Ticknor,  well  known  as  one  of  the  most  promising  of  the 
younger  school  of  American  writers,  has  never  done  better  work 
than  in  the  majority  of  these  clever  stories,  written  in  a  delightful 
comedy  vein. 

A    Mad    Madonna   and  other  stories.    By  l. 

Clarkson  Whitelock. 
With  eight  half-tone  illustrations. 

I  vol.,  large  i6mo,  cloth  decorative      .         .         .   '     .        $i.oo 

A  half  dozen  remarkable  psychological  stories,  delicate  in  color 

and  conception.     Each  of  the  six  has  a  touch  of  the  supernatural,  a 

quick  suggestion,  a  vivid  intensity,  and  a  dreamy  realism  that  is 

matchless  in  its  forceful  execution. 

On   the    Point.       a   summer  idyl.     By  Nathan  Has- 
kell Dole. 
Author  of  "  Not  Angels  Quite,"  with  dainty  half-tone  illustra- 
tions as  chapter  headings. 
I  vol.,  large  i6mo,  cloth  decorative      .         .         .         .         ^i.oo 
A  bright  and  clever  story  of  a  summer  on  the  coast  of  Maine, 
fresh,  breezy,  and  readable  from  the  first  to  the  last  page.     The 
narrative  describes  the  summer  outing  of  a  Mr.  Merrithew  and  his 
family.     The  characters  are  all  honest,  pleasant  people,  whom  we 
are  glad  to  know.     We  part  from  them  with  the  same  regret  with 
which  we  leave  a  congenial  party  of  friends. 

Cyrano  de  Bergerac.      a  heroic  comedy  from 

the   French  of   Edw^ard   Rostand,  as   Accepted  and 
Played  by  Richard  Mansfield.    Translated  by  How- 
ard Thayer  Kingsbury. 
I  vol.,  cloth  decorative,  with  a  photogravure  frontis- 
piece   ;^i.oo 

I  vol.,  paper  boards .50 

The  immediate  and  prolonged  success  of  "  Cyrano  de  Bergerac," 
in  Paris,  has  been  paralleled  by  Mr.  Mansfield's  success  with  an 
English  version,  dating  from  its  first  night  at  the  Garden  Theatre, 
New  York,  October  3,  1898. 

As  a  literary  work,  the  original  form  of  Rostand  took  high  rank;, 
and  the  preference  of  Mr.  Mansfield  for  Mr.  Kingsbury's  new  trans- 
lation implies  its  superior  merit. 


